


Light's Grace

by grey2510



Series: Light's Grace!verse [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angelic Grace, Angelic Grace as a Cure, Angst, Developing Relationship, M/M, Mark of Cain, POV Alternating, POV Castiel, POV Claire Novak, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-17 17:55:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3538730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grey2510/pseuds/grey2510
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Novak shows up at the bunker, and Team Free Will might finally have a lead on how to save Dean from the Mark of Cain. The question is, what will this mean for Dean and for Cas?</p><p>Takes place post 10x14. Is canon compliant until that point.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bunker and the Mark

**Author's Note:**

>   
>    
> 
> 
>  
> 
> **LG!V TIMELINE: Late February/Early March 2015**  
> 

She wants to hate him.

In truth, she has every right to hate him. Hate how he has taken her father away from her. Hate how he is the reason her family has been torn apart. Hate how he never responds to her prayers. Hate how as far as she is concerned, he isn’t living up to the agreement he made with her dying father to keep their family safe. Hate how he comes into the group home looking like her dad, still wearing his face and a trenchcoat (even if it is a different one) and a suit, and wants now—after so many years—to rescue her.

And yeah, there’s a part of her that knows she sometimes sounds like that stereotypical troubled teen, a Holden Caulfield 2.0 (because despite what her teachers thought, she _had_ tried in school sometimes and had read the goddamn book, thank you very much), but screw ‘em. If the most troubled teen in the history of high school literature gets to bitch about getting kicked out of friggin’ prep school and not fitting in (boo hoo), then Claire Novak figures she has more than enough right to feel shitty about her life. Except she can’t tell anyone why, because who would believe that an Angel of the Lord and some demons are the reason her parents are gone and she keeps running away from foster care?

But no matter how much she wants to hate Castiel, she can’t.

Despite all that he has done to her and her family, she knows in her core that Castiel is _good_. Righteous. He is far from perfect, and he has done terrible things, but he had always tried to do what was right. But it still kills her to see her father’s face but know that Jimmy Novak no longer looks out those eyes.

“I am not your father.”

The first words she ever heard Castiel say to her, long before she understood what that had meant.

A part of her wants to hate her dad a little bit, too, for saying yes to Castiel, for bringing the celestial being into their worlds. A part of her wants to hate her mom for not being able to cope with the angelic non-husband and her own demon possession. She can’t hate them either, but those feelings are locked in heart.

She can’t help but adjust the angel’s tie as they wait for Sandy, the counselor. Castiel may not be her dad, but there is something about him that makes her want to help him—help him not be a total dweeb at least. Later, she even compliments him on how much he’s improved since the day her family life was destroyed.

“You’ve changed. The Castiel I met? He was crappy. Like super stuck-up and a dick and you just wanted to punch him in his stupid angel face.”

“I don’t think I was _that_ bad.”

“You totally were. And now you’re just…I don’t know. Nicer. And kind of a doof. No offense.”

It’s kind of a sucky compliment, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. Hell, the guy even looks a bit pleased. Claire is secretly glad she is able to do that much for the angel; she gets the impression he doesn’t get that a lot.

It still doesn’t stop her from ditching him at the restaurant and stealing his wallet.

 

 

She really wants to hate Dean Winchester.

The rational part of her knows that Castiel and the Winchesters have saved her from being sold to that creep Salinger (ha) for god-knows-what (and Claire isn’t stupid—she knows exactly what, but there is no way she is going to think about _that_ in any detail), but seeing Dean covered in blood, surrounded by the hacked bodies of Randy and the other men nearly breaks her. She wants to be sick, she wants to hit and tear at Dean, she wants to scream until she is hoarse.

Instead, she does something incredibly reckless, and even she knows that now. But hey, when your current life story can be summed up in the line “First I lose my first dad, then I lose my second, and who killed him and trashed my life? The buddy of the guy who killed my first dad and wants to be my third dad” (and sadly, that’s the most normal version of that story—seriously, sometimes she thinks she should get an award for not being even more screwed up), reckless doesn’t seem all that far-fetched.

So when her new friends promise to take care of Dean Winchester for her, she agrees.

She watches from the trailer as the hunter sits on the bench, waiting for her. So they can talk. She still can’t believe he called, although a part of her suspects that Castiel might have persuaded him. But even then, he wants to _talk?_ What’s he going to say, “Oh hey sorry I murdered a bunch of people you know. Whoops, my bad”?

She knows how dangerous the man is, and yet there he sits on the bench, and he looks so fragile. Not physically weak, of course—but like everything inside him might shatter if hit at the right angle.

She can relate. Not that she wants to.

Her friends circle from the behind the bench, armed with an axe and a bat.

Suddenly, Claire realizes she doesn’t hate Dean. Can’t hate Dean.

“No!” she cries, and Dean easily disarms her friends. They really didn’t know who they were up against, and the very small part of Claire that isn’t completely freaking out as Dean raises the axe feels guilty that she got them into this mess. The axe comes crashing down on the bench. Claire runs.

She wonders why she couldn’t let Dean die, and she thinks it’s more than the fact the she doesn’t want to face any more bloodshed. As she wipes her mouth clear of vomit as she huddles behind a gas station, she suddenly remembers the first time she truly became aware of Dean Winchester—and how much she resented him even then.

In her brief stint as Castiel’s vessel, she had watched her parents threatened and torn apart and healed, but even while she cried out, trapped in her own body, as her father lay dying on the ground, begging Castiel to let his daughter go, the angel’s thoughts were divided and conflicted.

 _Dean Dean Dean Dean._ The name was a constant tattoo in the angel’s mind, a constant worry—like a wound that was constantly prodded and poked.

 _No! Castiel! Save my dad! He’s hurt! Castiel, please!_ she had screamed. How could this angel care more about this Dean when _her father_ was bleeding on the ground right in front of them? And then Castiel had left her, reclaimed her father’s body, and she was just Claire again.

She had told Castiel after the massacre at Randy’s that Dean was a monster. She had meant it. But when the angel simply replied, “It’s possible there’s a little monster in all of us,” she had felt her hatred of the hunter lessen. The same place where she stores her non-hatred for Castiel now holds her non-hatred for Dean. She isn’t sure what it means. Dean is a killer, but she can’t hate him like she wants to.

She hitches rides and sleeps under bridges or squats with other runaways and freaks like her. It sucks, but her home with Randy is gone, so where else is she going to go? Back to Sandy in the group home? Hell with that.

    

       

Two weeks after the almost-murder of Dean Winchester, it rains. And rains. Claire is pretty sure that her toes are going to rot off in her perpetually soaked shoes and although she has done some things in the past to get money that she is not proud of, her stopped attempt to rob a store for cash on Randy’s behalf has put her off the thought of trying it again.

She still has Castiel’s wallet, even though the cash is gone and all that is left are random receipts and few fake credit cards, but she’d rather not add credit card fraud to her rap sheet. She’s amused that he even has a second ID—Steve Smith—tucked behind her father's old license (and shit had that _hurt_ to see, especially when she'd had to brush it off to Randy and say they weren't related). The image of an Angel of the Lord getting pulled over in that shitty beige pimp car and having to show this ID with its lame-ass alias and goofy picture makes her crack a smile.

Claire knows that if she prays to Castiel, he will come and find her, but she’s not quite ready for that. It’s too close to begging. The angel had told her he can pick up on her longing, so she tries her best to keep that in check, but it’s hard to when you’re shivering under a thin blanket and the best meal you’ve gotten is whatever you can filch from a convenience store without getting caught. She never thought she’d say this, but if she never eats beef jerky and candy bars again, she won’t be all that upset.

Even though the license is fake, it has an address in Kansas. She has no idea if the angel has any connection to the address or if it’s just completely made up, but she figures what the hell. Illinois has done all it can for her, and she might as well see the world. If the angel hunt doesn’t pan out, so what? It’s not like she has pressing matters keeping her here. She can just move on.

A week after deciding she is done with the rain and the Land of Lincoln, Claire climbs out of a beat up pick-up truck in Lebanon, Kansas. She thanks the guy who picked her up about two hours out from her destination, and unconsciously sends up a prayer in thanks that he had been one of the good ones—just a decent citizen giving a kid a lift. Other than that woman who had seemed all motherly and kind but had turned stalkery about ten minutes into the ride (Claire had bolted at a red light), she’s been lucky thumbing rides so far. Maybe the world isn’t completely full of monsters.

Right.

She scopes out the town center, which takes all of thirty seconds. Just another Small Town, USA. A few buildings and store fronts and that’s about it. She curses her rotten luck for picking such a crappy place to trek to and considers hitchhiking back out of town when a beast of a black car rolls down Main Street like it owns the place.

No wonder “Steve Smith” says he lives in this shit-hole town.

She’d figured this might be the case. No matter what Castiel does, the Winchesters always seem to be involved, too. She’s about to duck out of view behind a light pole—it’s not like there are a lot of options for hiding places in the general vicinity—but is relieved to see it's Sam driving, and he doesn’t even notice her standing there. The Impala drives straight through, and she follows its progress until it takes a left about a half mile out of town.

Claire pulls Castiel’s wallet out of her messenger bag and thumbs the ID out of the clear plastic window. Her stomach sinks as she really reads the full address: 14 Main Street. She looks up and quickly realizes that 14 Main Street is the Post Office across the road from her. Well, it’s the only lead she has unless she wants to start booking it down the road after the Impala. She puts on her best innocent girl look and crosses the street.

 

 

The factory looks old and abandoned, but it’s the only place within a mile radius of where she was able to track down the Impala (the Post Office had been a bust for information, so she'd had to track the car herself).

 _Seriously? These guys can forge IDs and get fake credit cards and they’re squatting in a creepy-ass factory?_ she thinks.

There’s no sign of the Impala outside the building, but there are tire tracks in the dusty gravel outside what looks like a garage door. She tries to circle the building—case the joint, as it were—but the ground is hilly and covered in twisted metal and broken glass. After almost rolling her ankle twice, she decides that a limp and a need for a tetanus shot aren’t exactly high on her list of wants, and she heads back to the front.

There’s a door a few steps down, and there are footprints leading up to the cement steps.

_Suuure, knock on the door to the tunnel under said creepy-ass factory. What could possibly go wrong, Claire?_

Well, she’s come this far. What the hell.

She knocks, and whatever is behind that door, it must be cavernous because she can hear the reverberations from outside. The seconds pass, and just when she is about to give it up and head back to the main road, the door opens. It's the monster.

“C-Claire?” he asks, his eyes wide in surprise. Her own surprise has less to do with coming face to face with Dean, but more to do with the look of guilt and fear that flashes over the man’s face. She instinctively knows that fear has nothing to do with her, but everything to do with what he fears about himself.

Figures. No one ever really cares about _her._ Castiel cares out of guilt. Sandy cared because it was her job. Randy cared because he needed her. Dean Winchester wouldn’t give two craps about her unless he had to.

 _This was a stupid idea,_ she thinks and shifts her weight to her heels, ready to turn and run. The hunter picks up on the slight movement and grabs her arm.

“Wait, Claire! Don’t—!” he says desperately, as she tries to twist her way out of his grasp. He snatches his hand back like he’s been burned, then backs away, realizing what he’s done. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You never do,” she spits back, bitterly nursing her wrist, noticing how he is rubbing his right forearm as though he’s the one who had been grabbed. Her words cut him deep and the wounded look on his face hits her in her core; once again, she can’t bring herself to hate the monster. That doesn’t mean she has to particularly like him, though.

The hunter shifts uncomfortably, then runs his hand over his jaw. Neither is really sure what to say next.

“Does Cas know you’re here?

The nickname seems so…casual, so unlike the uptight and socially inept angel she knows. And yet, at the same time, she can’t imagine Dean calling him Castiel.

“No. I…I came here by myself.” She pulls out the wallet, and a small part of her marvels that she is still talking to Dean, still explaining herself to him. She shows him the ID, and Dean cracks a bitter half-smile. “What does an angel need with a wallet and ID anyway?”

“He was human for a while. Got his Grace back now—well, someone else’s Grace—but we’d made him up some IDs back then and…” Dean trails off and it’s clear that he’s just as surprised he’s having this conversation as she is.

They’re still standing in the doorway, and Dean seems to realize this because he steps back from the threshold, silently inviting her in. She hesitates, then steps onto a balcony leading down into what looks like a giant foyer and library. _What the hell is this place?_ she thinks as she follows Dean down the stairs. She repeats the thought out loud a moment later, and Dean mumbles some sort of answer about some society—the Men of Letters or whatever—and how the place is his and Sam’s now.

“Claire, uh, we need to talk. But, uh, do you need anything? Are you hungry?”

Claire is long past wanting to seem cool and too self-sufficient for food, and even if she weren’t, she knows her stomach is probably about two minutes away from growling and giving up the whole act as a bad job anyway.

“Sure, whatever, food’d be fine.”

Ok, so maybe she’s not _completely_ past trying to act too cool for school.

For a monster, Dean isn’t that bad of a cook. Claire totally figured he’d just pull out some PB&J, maybe some cold pizza or Chinese food or something, but the burger she’s quickly demolishing is pretty damn good. The patty is a leftover from the ones he made last night, but Dean still toasts up a fresh bun for her.

They don’t talk much while she eats in this industrial kitchen— _seriously, what_ _is this place?_ —and Dean leans awkwardly against a counter far from the table. Finally he seems to steel himself and clears his throat.

“I’m…sorry about what happened to Randy,” he says, and it looks like he’s going to stop there, but he plows on before his resolve runs out. “He was a douche and he was treating you like crap, but he didn’t deserve that. And you didn’t deserve to see that.”

“Yeah, great. Thanks. Totally makes up for it.” Claire pushes the plate away. “Why’d you do it? And why does Castiel still trust you?”

Dean starts rubs his forearm again, and Claire briefly wonders if maybe he’s an addict. She can’t see any tracks, but she’s seen a few kids at the group home do the same motion when they were recovering.

“Well, that’s a long fucking story,” Dean laughs darkly. “You want the me and Cas trust part first or the why’d I go Lizzie Borden?”

Before Claire can respond, Sam comes into the kitchen, but freezes when he sees Claire at the table.

“Uh, Dean? Claire?” he manages.

“Hey, Sam. Come to join the heart-to-heart? Dean was just about to tell me why he’s a raging psychopath,” Claire says with far more bravado than she actually has. She avoids meeting Dean’s eyes as she says this. _Nice going, calling the raging psychopath a raging psychopath…genius._

Without a word, the two brothers step out of the kitchen and speak quietly. She tries to pick out what they’re saying as she absently picks at her chipped nail polish, but the low grumbles of their voices don’t penetrate the thick walls very well. That is, until Dean gives up any pretense of keeping his voice down.

“I’m fucking fine, Sammy! I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Yeah, because the last time you said that worked out so well.”

“Seriously, man? Do you really think pissing me off right now is going to help?”

Sam is quiet for a moment before responding. “You want me to stay with you two?”

“No. We’re just going to talk. Cas said it might help, although I don’t know what kind of help I can be.”

Sam’s voice drops again, so she can only catch part of it. “…tried to _kill_ you.”

“And it didn’t exactly work, in case you didn’t notice. And can you blame them? Plus, they’re fine! I didn’t go dark side. I think I can handle a fucking conversation with a teenage girl in my own goddamn kitchen.”

“Whatever, Dean. I’ll be down the hall.”

Claire hears Sam storm away and expects Dean to come right back in. A minute passes and she starts to wonder if he left, too. She starts eyeing the cabinets, wondering if she’d have time to grab some food and bolt before they noticed, but Dean comes in before she can make her move. Instead of resuming his position across the room, this time he sits right across the table from her. They stare at each other, and suddenly Claire feels like she understands Dean Winchester.

It’s instinctual, just like her faith in Castiel despite everything. In his face she sees the hard lines of someone who has done terrible things, but also the shame and burden of those memories. She’s never studied a face like this before, never had such insight. It’s like looking into his soul, and she knows in every fiber of her being that his soul is good. Yes, she understands why Castiel likes and trusts Dean.

Dean breaks the stare first, and it takes him a moment to recover. Claire is the first to break the silence.

“I think I get why Castiel trusts you.”

“Wait, what?” Dean seems genuinely surprised by the comment. “Me ‘n Cas have kinda got a lot of water under that bridge. And that bridge has collapsed a few times. And I dunno if I’m really all that trustworthy right now.”

“Because of what happened to Randy?”

Dean’s hands are bunched on the table, and he stares at a spot between them like he’s going to drill a hole through the table with his eyes.

“Yeah. You, uh, ever heard of Cain? Like Cain and Abel?” he asks as he finally looks up.

Claire rolls her eyes. “Duh. My dad said yes to an _angel_. So did I once. Of _course_ I’ve heard of freaking Cain and Abel.”

“Right.” Dean rolls up his right sleeve above his elbow, and Claire sees a red scar, a curved L with two shorter lines perpendicular to the stem.

“Nice tattoo or brand or whatever. Kinda douchey, though.”

“It’s the Mark of Cain,” Dean says, pointedly ignoring her snark.

"You know that’s a terrible gang name, right?”

Dean rolls his eyes in irritation, and Claire smirks, pleased she got _some_ reaction other than despair out of the guy.

“No, it’s the literal Mark of Cain. As in I met Cain, _the_ Cain, and he gave me this mark so I could defeat a demon, a Knight of Hell.”   

"So that’s why you went crazy and killed everyone?” In the back of her mind, Claire grimly chuckles that her life freaking sucks if some guy says he met the Biblical Father of Murder for real and that part of the story doesn’t faze her.

“Yeah. I saw red. I…I couldn’t help it.”

“Yeah, well thanks to your stupid tattoo I lost my family again.”

Dean looks at her sharply. “Claire, they weren’t your family.”

At this, Claire outright snorts. “Can’t say I’ve had much family since you guys ripped apart my real one. Randy was there for me when I needed someone.”

“No, Claire. He wasn’t. Family doesn’t ask their kids to steal from stores or sell you to some jackass pedophile,” Dean asserts, and Claire can see he is legitimately angry, though not at her.

Claire crosses her arms and stubbornly refuses to look at Dean, her eyes welling and dangerously close to spilling over. She wonders why she’s even still sitting here in the first place. Like he has any right to talk to her about family.

“I get why you asked them to kill me,” Dean says quietly.

Claire does _not_ want to talk about this, but she figures the hunter isn’t going to let it go. She figures right.

“Claire, I don’t do this much. I’m, uh, I’m not much of a talker. But Cas says I might be able to help—God knows why—so…here goes. I get it. I’m not even mad about it.”

Claire turns and glares at him. “Screw you. You don’t get to be the one who gives out forgiveness, Dean,” she shoots back, although part of her is a little relieved the monster hasn't added her name to the kill list.

The silence is deafening and Claire wants Dean to say something or to leave or to just do _something_.

“I’m sorry for Randy, Claire. I can’t say I want you to forgive me, because, well, that’s not my thing. I don’t forgive myself, so I don’t expect you to, and I’m sure as hell not going to ask for that.”

Claire and Dean lock eyes again. His arm is still outstretched on the table, and for reasons she can’t explain, she reaches out to touch the scar.

The scar screams at her; she can feel the hate and rage throughout her whole body, but then she finds her center and she calms. The anger of the scar retreats, is muffled. Claire looks at Dean’s face. If his eyes could get any wider, they would be the size of dinner plates. He pulls his arm back.

“What the fuck just happened?” he breathes.

“I…I don’t know. I dunno why I did that,” she admits, starting to freak out a bit. Even though they have broken contact, she can still feel the remnants of the scar’s energy, red and coiling and insidious. She tries for calm, tries to ask a rational question. “Does it always feel that evil?”

Dean swallows. “Yeah. Except for a few seconds there. It was duller, distant. That’s never happened before. Claire, you all right?”

Claire stares at her hands, as though she expects them to start glowing radioactive green. She starts to breathe quickly and shallowly. It’s too much, this has all just been too much. Castiel. Randy. Dean. The blood. The Mark. She pushes her chair back and stumbles over to the wall, slumping down onto the floor.

Her eyes start to slip out of focus, but Dean is over her in an instant, grabbing her shoulders, and she starts to laugh and sob hysterically at the fact that Dean Winchester of all people is the one trying to save her from a panic attack.

“Sam!” he bellows. “Claire, calm down. Deep breaths. Look at me, ok? You’re going to be fine. _SAMMY_! Get the hell in here, man!”

She sees Sam burst into the kitchen before she buries her head in her arms, her quick and shallow breaths racking her body. She can hear the brothers, particularly Dean, trying to calm her down, but it sounds like they are far away or like she is underwater.

And then it is black.

 

 

Claire wakes on something soft, and there is a heavy weight on her. It’s cozy and warm and yet there are alarm bells going off in her head. Something is wrong, she shouldn’t be here, where is here, anyway?

Her eyes, which had been roving under lids for the last few seconds, flash open as she suddenly remembers where she is and how she got there. She tries to fling off the heavy blanket that looks more like an old comforter, but her arms get entangled, and before she can try again, a hand is on her shoulder.

“Hey, Claire. It’s ok,” Dean’s gruff voice says in an almost soothing tone.

It doesn’t help. Claire jerks back into the couch, drawing herself in and away from Dean, who pulls back and settles himself on the coffee table’s edge. There’s a glass of water beside him, and he holds it out to her awkwardly. She glares at him, and after a moment, he puts it down again and retreats to the hallway, stopping just outside the door.

“Just leave me alone,” she mutters, rubbing her eyes, her hands coming away with black mascara smudges. She doesn’t even want to think about how much of a train wreck she probably looks like right now. Dean looks like he’s about to say something, but then nods and leaves.

Once she finally hears his heavy footfalls down the hallway, she relents and takes the water. She drinks half, then presses the cool glass against her forehead. _Why did I come here? I need to get out of here, run before they stop me or before they call Castiel._

Castiel.

For a moment, she’d forgotten all about him.

Claire looks around her and sees that her stuff has been placed nicely beside the couch. She doesn’t have much, but what’s hers is hers and she’s glad she doesn’t have to search this place—the bunker, Dean had called it—before slipping out.

She doesn’t know where she’ll go, but suddenly staying here with the Winchesters and Castiel and the freaky-ass thing on Dean’s arm is too crazy to even consider. She slips her bag over her shoulder and pads quietly to the door to the hallway, which stretches in both directions with little indication as to what lies at either end. She picks left at random, and quickly discovers she might have picked well, except that the people she is trying to avoid are blocking her way.

She reaches the end of the corridor, and around the corner, the hall opens up into the library she had entered through earlier. Of course, before she can even poke her head around the corner, she realizes she is stuck when she hears the low rumbles of familiar men’s voices drift out.

“You call Cas?”

“Yeah, ‘course I did. He says he’s a few hours out.”

Claire hears a pause and what sounds like pages rustling and a book closing. She readjusts the bag on her shoulders and wonders if there’s a back exit. There must be—she can’t imagine these guys wouldn’t have an escape plan.

What sounds like a bottle clinks onto a table and a chair creaks. Another book opens.

“Sammy, c’mon, man. We’ve been through these books a thousand times.”

“I know. Remember how _I’m_ the one who told you to get your nose out of a book and go on a hunt?”

“Yeah and that went beautifully, just a nice trip down puberty lane again. Fuckin’ witches.”

Claire hears Sam snort.

“Don’t even say it—” Dean growls.

Claire is pretty sure that Sam muffles something about Taylor Swift, but that can’t be right. She must have heard him wrong.

“Ok, sorry, Dean. Anyway,” Sam says, his voice struggling for seriousness, “this is the first lead we’ve had in _forever_. Maybe now something in these books will make sense or help.”

“Fine. Whatever,” Dean replies, and Claire can hear fingers drumming on the table. “What the hell are we going to do about Claire?”

“No freakin’ clue. We gotta keep her here, though. Think she’ll bolt again?”

“Wouldn’t you? You should probably check on her. I don’t think she wants me around.”

Claire doesn’t wait to hear the rest of the conversation; she’s already retreating down the hall, trying to keep her footfalls from echoing around the concrete and tile. She rounds a corner and hears footsteps behind her, but not in pursuit; whichever brother it is clearly isn’t close enough behind to have seen her fleeing. Another corner and... _shit_. Dead end. She’s back in the hallway with the kitchen.

“Claire?” she hears Dean’s voice distantly most likely from the room with the couch she’d been on—Sam must have convinced him to try talking to her again. She has nowhere to go, except back down the hallway towards Dean, so she just goes into the kitchen and pretends to raid the cabinets. Maybe if they think she’s planning on staying, they’ll let down their guard and she can sneak out later.

Dean skids into the kitchen, and she looks up innocently from a box of Honey Nut Cheerios, a handful overflowing her fingers.

“Hey,” she says, mustering as much calm as she can. She’s not entirely sure she’s successful, but Dean seems to buy it for the most part.

“Oh,” Dean says lamely. “I thought—never mind. Need anything?”

“No. I still don’t want to talk to you—I dunno what the heck is going on with that stupid Mark of Cain and I still think you’re an asshole—but I’m fine right now, ok?”

“Yeah, uh, sure. Just don’t go, ok? Cas is on his way and I dunno what happened back there but I think you should stay here. Until we know everything’s safe.”

“You’re not my dad, Dean. And neither is _Cas_ ,” she says, putting as much disdain as she can into the angel’s nickname. Dean’s wounded look flashes over his face again.

“Right. Well, I’ll be in the library with Sam,” Dean says and pauses. “While you were out, I made up a room for you. It’s the one our friend Charlie uses when she’s here, but I don’t think she’d mind.” Dean rubs the back of his neck, and Claire still finds it odd how uncomfortable and unsure the hunter seems around her. She’s seen this guy take down angels and demons, and massacre people. But now there is something hesitant and almost fearful.

“Great. Where?” Claire doesn’t even care that storming to her room and slamming the door is probably the lamest, sulkiest thing she could do because, right now, it seems like the most glorious prospect in the world.

“First hallway on right, third door on left.” Dean leaves, and Claire shoves the plastic bag back into the cereal box. She considers putting it away, but decides she might as well stock up if she’s going to be in self-inflicted isolation for a while. She grabs a couple of Cokes from the fridge, then makes her way down the hallway.

There isn’t much in the bedroom. A double bed with what looks like fresh sheets, a laptop charger and a few random books on the table, a couple of brightly colored t-shirts and pairs of jeans in the closet, a toothbrush and some miscellaneous travel-sized toiletries on a shelf. Everything about the room says “spare”, but there’s still something personal about it. There isn’t much else to do, so she checks out the books on table.

Two are thick tomes, probably from the bunker’s library, and one is in no language Claire has ever come across before, but she runs a hand over the leather cover and somehow feels connected to it. The third is a battered copy of _The Wonderful Wizard of Oz_. She takes the book and settles on the bed, digging out her phone and headphones. She tries to read, but only makes it a few pages before tossing the book aside and burying her head in her hands, her knees pulled up to her chest.

_Castiel, I know this is gonna sound stupid, but I hope you can fix things even though I said I didn’t want your help. I just want to go home. I don’t even know where home is anymore. I just want to be done._

It’s been weeks since she’s prayed formally to the angel, and she wonders if he’s even listening ever since she told him to go away. She feels torn in half: the thought of staying here is suffocating and terrifying and feels like giving up, but the thought of being out there on her own again is not something she wants to deal with right now. She chokes on a small sob, then curls into the pillows. It doesn’t take long for emotional and physical exhaustion to win, and she drifts off into an uneasy sleep.


	2. Hope for a Solution

These days, he tries to stay off of Angel Radio. Castiel no longer cares all that much about what the angels still on Earth are doing; someone else—Hannah—can deal with them. There are more pressing matters.

The demon is dead, and Castiel pangs that the vessel could not be saved, but even that is pushed to the back. There was a time he would have mourned the loss of any human life, but now there has been so much death that it is more like a half-forgotten bruise than actual grief. His phone rings as he stalks out of the abandoned factory.

“Dean?”

“Cas, how far away are you? You need to get your ass back to the bunker.”

Cas’ stomach drops. He can’t remember when that started happening. Did he ever feel this way before he inhabited this vessel? “What’s wrong? Are you all right?” He tries, and mostly fails, at keeping the panic out of his voice.

“Yeah, man, I’m fine. It’s Claire. She just showed up here and—well, we’ll fill you in later. Just get here, ok?”

“Is she hurt?” he asks as a second wave of worry crashes over him.

“No, she’s a little freaked out but she’s fine.”

“I’ll be there soon. I’m three hours away.”

The highway is straight and boring, and Cas knows he should have stopped and rested after such a long day before driving to the bunker. His stolen Grace has not begun to fade as badly as the last, but it’s only a matter of time. But Cas won’t stop until he’s in Lebanon, and anyone who knows him would not be surprised. Dean Winchester needs his help, and that help is for Claire Novak.

As he drives, he hears a prayer, a voice that jumps out from the usual chatter of human prayers and offerings.

_Castiel, I know this is gonna sound stupid, but I hope you can fix things even though I said I didn’t want your help. I just want to go home. I don’t even know where home is anymore. I just want to be done._

The trenchcoat-beige car continues its tear down the road.

 

 

When Sam lets him into the bunker, Cas sees books strewn over the library tables and a couple of empty beer bottles staggered throughout. Privately, he is glad not to see any hard liquor or tumblers on the table.

Sam gives him a hug, which Castiel somewhat awkwardly returns.

“How is he?” the angel asks quietly.

“Better, I think,” Sam replies, but they both know that the response is very qualified.

The days after Dean killed Cain had been worrisome at best: the dead look in Dean’s eyes, the amount of time he stayed isolated in his room, the insincere lightness in his voice when he did join them for a meal. Neither the angel or the younger Winchester had ever seen Dean in such a state. Gradually, he had seemed to recover a bit, but Dean was still a far cry from ok.

At least in Hell, Castiel had known he could save the Righteous Man. But now?

Before they can continue their conversation about Dean, the man himself saunters into the foyer and clasps Castiel in what the angel has learned is considered a “manly” two-pats-on-the-back hug. But he knows Dean, and even in those brief seconds, he feels the hunter’s fear, longing, and relief. They step back from each other and Cas is once again locked into Dean’s green eyes.

“Hello, Dean.”

“Hey, Cas. Good to see you.”

"Where’s Claire?”

“I’m fine, Cas, thanks for asking.”

Cas doesn’t have to turn around to know that Sam is rolling his eyes at this. Although Castiel has always been, and always will be, closer to the older Winchester, he and Sam have developed a strong familiarity ever since they began their search for both Dean when he was a demon and for a cure to the Mark of Cain.

“She’s in Charlie’s room. She’s asleep; I checked on her about fifteen minutes ago,” Sam answers for Dean.

“How long has she been here?”

“She showed up earlier today, out of the blue. Used one of your old IDs to track us down,” Dean answers. “Knew we shouldn’t have given you a Kansas address. Too easy to track us.”

Cas doesn’t respond to this. When Dean had asked him to leave in an attempt to protect his brother, Cas had agonized over the license: it had been a cruel reminder of what he wanted but could not have, but it had also been the only connection he’d had to the Winchesters.

“But that’s not the important part,” Sam cuts in.

“What do you mean?” At this point, they have begun settling in at the tables, although Castiel observes Dean’s exaggerated calm as he slouches, arms crossed, tipping back in his chair. Neither brother responds, although Sam is clearly trying to silently prod his brother into speaking.     

“Dean, just tell him. I wasn’t there,” Sam finally says, exasperated.

“Shit, man, we don’t even know if it means anything. It’s probably nothing.”

“‘Nothing’ does not make a seventeen-year-old girl go into a panic attack and pass out.”

Cas stands up abruptly, ready to dart to the bedrooms. “Panic attack? You said she was fine.”

Dean bolts up and puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder. Despite the fact that he is a millennia-old being with celestial strength, the angel allows Dean’s touch to settle him and he sits back down in his chair.

“Yeah, man, it’s ok. She woke up after a few minutes.”

“Dean.” The gravel in his voice deepens; Cas needs answers and is tired of Dean avoiding whatever it is that he is avoiding. “What. Happened?” he says deliberately.

Dean half-sighs and half-groans. Castiel resists the urge to push him or hit him; as close as they may be, Dean Winchester can be an extremely exasperating human being, especially when he becomes reticent.

So, often, in other words.

“It’s about the Mark,” Sam prompts. Dean shoots him a look of pure annoyance.

“Dean, your brother and I—and you—have been searching for months for any hope of a cure. If you have _any_ lead, I would hope that you would share so that we can abandon any fruitless lines of inquiry.”

It’s been years since Castiel has pulled this kind of guilt trip on Dean, and he sincerely hopes that this does not result in him beating the hunter in an alley again. But just like during the Apocalypse, it is difficult not to become angry and frustrated when the man you are working your hardest to save is the one who is resisting the efforts the most.

Luckily for Cas, Dean seems to have picked up on his tone. He clears his throat, sits up in his chair, and begins to speak. He tells Cas about Claire’s arrival, their conversation, and then what happened when she had touched the Mark.

"Any idea what that might mean, Cas?” Sam asks hopefully once Dean finishes.

Cas’ mind whirls, which is saying something, considering the vast amount of knowledge and processing speed his angelic being contains. _Could this be the solution?_ he wonders, but he cannot be sure. He does not want to raise their hopes, not without more information.

“Possibly. But I would like to look into this more before I propose a theory,” Cas says, striving to be as neutral and academic as possible. Sam looks annoyed at his vagueness. Dean looks like he’s about ready to call Cas on the lie. Their eyes meet, and Cas wills Dean not to say anything. Dean’s eyes search his, questioning him, but they must come to some satisfying conclusion because he breaks contact and does not comment on Castiel’s half-truth. “I need to speak to Claire.”


	3. Souls and Secrets

For the second time in one day, Claire wakes up disoriented and alarmed, and this time the alarm is prompted by solemn knocking on a door. She blearily opens her eyes, and it takes her a moment for her to remember where she is, again. The door creaks open before she can respond and tell whoever it is—probably Dean ( _can’t he just leave me alone?_ )—to go away.

“Claire?” a familiar voice asks in a low rumble. “May I come in?”

She groans, although some it if has more to do with sleep deprivation. “Sure,” she grumbles as she pushes herself up on the bed so she can lean against the headrest.

The angel looks rumpled and tired, but she is strangely pleased to see he is still wearing the tie, even if it is askew. Castiel enters the room and closes the door, but he stands awkwardly inside as though unsure what to do next.

“You can sit if you want,” she says, indicating the chair. Castiel moves the chair closer to the bed, then sits, his trenchcoat bunching at the sides.

“How do you feel? Dean and Sam told me about earlier.”

“Fine. Whatever.” She stares at her knees, and she knows that Castiel is looking at her just as intently. She finally looks up at him and sees a mixture of concern and questioning on his face. “You know, sometimes you look…human.”

Castiel frowns, clearly confused. “How would I not look human?”

“Not literally. Like, you look like my dad, so of course you look human in that way. But, I dunno, you make really human expressions now.”

“And I didn’t when I was,” he pauses, looking for the right words, his eyes crinkling at the corners, “‘super stuck up and a dick?’”

Claire can’t help but grin a bit at this. They sit for a moment in silence, but finally Castiel speaks again.

“Claire, I know you may not want to talk about it, but I need to know exactly what happened with you and Dean.”

“Why don’t you just ask him?”

“I have. But I need to hear it from you as well. I need to know what happened from your perspective.” Castiel shifts slightly in his chair. “I know you think he is a monster, but—”

“He’s a good person,” she finishes for him, and notes the surprised look the angel gives her.

“Why do you say so?”

“I…” she trails off, not sure how to word it without sounding stupid. “I think…I saw his soul.”

Castiel straightens abruptly—and considering how straight he had been sitting, this is no mean feat—and leans forward. “How?”

“I don’t know. We were at the table and I just looked at his face and looked him in the eye and I just _knew_. Like in every part of me.”

“Has this ever happened with any other human?”

Claire shakes her head. “No, that’d just be freaky and weird and I think I’d notice if suddenly I was soul-gazing everyone.” Castiel just nods at what she says, and she decides to take the plunge and continue. “It’s like…it’s like how I know you’re good.”

Both sets of Novak-blue eyes lock on each other, and Claire once again feels like she is seeing farther than she should.

“Claire, tell me what happened when you touched the Mark.”

Claire breaks eye contact and draws her knees up closer. She wraps her hands around her legs, partly for comfort and partly to stop her hands from shaking. The thought of the Mark is haunting—that evil crawling under the skin.

“It was awful,” she whispers.

“I know. What happened?” Castiel asks again gently.

“I could feel it. It was red and angry and evil and it was all over me and in me. But then, it got better. It didn’t go away. But it was like this feeling in my gut, the same place that makes me trust you, outshone it.” Claire looks up from here her eyes had been studying the frayed edges of jeans’ knees. “Dean said that’d never happened before. Am I…” she swallows the beginnings of a sob, “am I a monster, too?”

“No, you are not a monster.”

“So what’s happening to me, Castiel?”

The angel sighs and buries his head in his hands. Claire wonders absently if she’s ever seen him look so broken.

“It’s…” Castiel begins, and she could swear he almost looks ashamed. “It’s my Grace.”

“What?”

Castiel sits up and composes himself. “When an angel uses a vessel and leaves, they leave some of their Grace behind. You were once my vessel, and therefore you still carry a small amount of my Grace.”

Claire isn’t sure whether to be relieved that she isn’t a monster or freaked out that she is still part angel or angry that the angel in front of her spent so many years ignoring the prayers of someone carrying his freakin’ Grace in them. Oddly, her brain seems to be processing logic in the background of the emotions, and so the questions that come out of her mouth surprise her.

“So how come I could only soul-gaze Dean? And if you’ve been around him all this time, how come you haven’t been able to do that to the Mark?”

“I no longer possess my Grace,” replies Castiel, looking decidedly uncomfortable. “My Grace was stolen from me, and so I now have borrowed Grace from one of my fallen brethren.”

Claire says nothing, trying to make sense of all of this. _Thanks for the answer there, Castiel. You really cleared things right up…_ Suddenly, something clicks and all the pieces come together.

“You…love him, don’t you?”

Castiel doesn’t reply, just stares at a spot on the floor between the chair and the bed.

“That’s why he’s the only one I could soul-gaze. That’s why you being around hasn’t done anything to the Mark. It has to be _your_ Grace, not someone else’s.”

“That is my theory, yes.”

For some reason, the dangers of the Mark of Cain fly out the window. Suddenly, all Claire wants to do is help this angel with the love of his life. And while there is a small part of her that has difficulty picturing someone who looks like her father with anyone other than her mother, the angel in front of her just looks so hapless and unsure.

“Castiel, does Dean know?”

“I’m not sure. Other than Purgatory…” Castiel trails off, and Claire is about to ask for more details, but at that moment, there is a knock on the door. Sam opens it a few inches and pokes his head in.

“Everything ok? Just wanted to check on you two. There’s dinner if you’re interested, Claire.”

As if on cue, Claire’s stomach begins to rumble.

“Thank you, Sam. We’ll be out in a minute,” Castiel answers. Sam nods and leaves, although the door stays cracked open. The angel gets up from the chair, and Claire unfolds from the bed. Before Castiel can leave the room, she hugs him. She feels his body tense, but he eventually returns the hug. It’s not her dad, not anymore, but for the moment she can forget that, and she soaks up as much of the embrace as she can. She pulls away and is a bit relieved she hasn’t left mascara stains on the white business shirt. Without another word, they leave the room and head towards the kitchen.  


	4. Something Awful

Dean is relieved to see Claire follow Cas into the kitchen. He would have completely understood if the girl had stayed in her room, and he tries to give her a smile as she walks in. He pulls a few beers and a soda from the fridge and puts them around the plates on the table. Two homemade pizzas—a meat lover’s and a plain cheese—send up curls of steam from the cutting boards. The pizzas aren’t gourmet by any means, but Dean has found cooking dinner to be one of the few things to relax him. Not that he would ever admit it.

He sees Claire survey the room, and he is a bit surprised at the look in her eyes. It is calculating and wary; he recognizes it as the one that all hunters have when they step into a new situation. Without it, you don’t stay alive for very long. Dean wonders how fucked up Claire’s life must be if this kid has that look just walking into a kitchen with a home-cooked meal.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked. Figured pizza was probably a safe bet,” he says by way of greeting.

“Yeah, it’s fine.”

The four of them silently settle in around the table. Cas drinks his beer, but does not help himself to the food. Sam takes a couple of slices and Dean knows he’s trying his best to seem calm and casual. For the most part, it works. Normally, Dean would probably be onto his fourth slice of pizza by now, but he works slowly on his first. Claire is sitting across from him, and Dean notices that she seems far more relaxed and not as angry as she had earlier. Whatever she and Cas talked about, it must have worked. _Good, because if I had to go one more round playing Dr. Phil with this kid, I’d go fucking nuts myself._ Her eyes flick between him and Cas as she munches on her pizza, and again they lock eyes for a minute.

It’s fucking weird, if he wants to be honest, to have Cas’—Jimmy’s—blue eyes stare at him with the same intensity as the angel but coming from the face of this blonde teenager. It’s like she can see into his soul. He shifts in his chair, breaks the stare, and feigns immense interest in his dinner.

There is little talk as they eat, and when they are done, even Claire helps move the dishes to the counter by the sink and wrap up the leftovers. Dean immediately stakes a claim at the sink and starts up the water; he has no desire to head back to the library right now.

“Dean, you cooked. We’ll clean up,” Sam offers, but Dean shakes his head.

“Nah, man. I got it. You go get your nerd on and research,” Dean replies. _Christ, I can be such a jackass,_ he thinks, but he still doesn’t apologize for the jab at his brother. Hell, Sammy probably would start to worry if he did start dropping sorries all over the place, and he figures he got his quota in for the year during his conversation with Claire earlier.

“Yeah, all right,” Sam sighs. “Claire, there’s a TV in the other room if you want…”

“Sure, what the hell.”

Dean doesn’t turn around from the sink, but he hears two sets of footsteps leave the kitchen. He breathes a sigh of relief that Claire has taken Sam up on his offer. He puts a dripping plate on towel laid on the counter. _We should really pick up one of those strainer things_ , and he laughs to himself because buying a fucking dish strainer is so far down on the list of things he ever thought he’d say in his life.

“Dean.”

“What, Cas?” He still doesn’t turn around. He knows the angel is sitting there, those blue eyes boring into his back.

“How are you?”

 _Awesome. Another fucking heart-to-heart._ “I’m fine. Haven’t killed anyone and I made dinner. It’s been a red-letter day.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Dean snorts. “Don’t worry about it.” The silence stretches uncomfortably as Dean scrubs, rinses, and repeats, the water in the basin growing soapy and grey.

“Thank you for talking with Claire. I know it couldn’t have been easy after everything between you,” Cas says finally.

“Still don’t know why you thought I could do anything about it. She still fucking hates me.” He places the last plate on the towel, then moves on to one of the pizza pans, scrubbing at the baked-on remnants of crust.

“No, she doesn’t.”

The earnestness and honesty in the angel’s voice finally makes Dean turn around. Cas’ eyes are wide with concern and care. Through everything, Cas still believes in Dean, and for the life of him, the hunter can’t figure out why. He’s a fuck up, and yet here this angel sits, telling him that the girl who saw him kneeling in a pool of blood, surrounded by the butchered corpses of people she knew, also doesn’t hate him.

“Well, she should if she knows what’s good for her.”

“I don’t think you understand, Dean. She can’t hate you, and I mean that literally.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Dean reaches behind him and shuts off the water. He dries his hands on a towel. The pans can wait. Cas looks down at his hands, clasped in his lap. Dean’s heart clenches a little as he notices all the signs of fatigue and worry in the angel’s posture: the tension in his shoulders, the furrowed brow, the stiffness with which he sits. The worst part is he knows it’s all because of him, because of this fucking Mark of Cain, and if there’s one thing Dean Winchester can't stand, it’s having other people worry about him. He takes care of people, not the other way around.

“Claire cannot hate you because I cannot hate you,” Cas says finally. Dean just stares at him, and his stomach flips like it always does when Cas says things like that. He ignores it and presses on.

“Gonna need a little more of an explanation than that, buddy.”

“Do you remember when Jimmy’s family was taken and I briefly inhabited Claire as my vessel?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Claire still contains part of my Grace, much like how Gadreel left some of his in Sam.”

Dean takes a second to process this. “Wait, so you’re saying that because you and I share a ‘profound bond’ or whatever, now Claire thinks I’m the best thing since sliced bread?”

Cas looks up and Dean instinctively knows the angel is trying to figure out how baked goods factor into a discussion about angelic Grace. Thankfully, Cas doesn’t ask and instead remains on topic; he nods in response to Dean’s question.

“So how come you haven’t been able to mojo this thing off of me now that you’re all angelified again but Claire could make it go quiet?”

“Well, as you so disdainfully pointed out, you and I share a ‘profound bond’, which is partly tied to my Grace. I no longer have _my_ Grace,” Cas explains with sarcastic bitterness, and Dean can almost see Cas do the air quotes around ‘profound bond.’ The hunter idly wonders why that seems to be one of the few human traits this angel mastered so quickly. For the second time in an hour, Dean feels like a jackass again. He hadn’t meant to be so dismissive of the…whatever it is…profound bond? friendship?...that he and Cas share. He runs a hand over his jaw.

“So what do we do now? Can Claire remove the Mark?”

“I don’t think so. Not on her own, at least. We will have to research.”

“Awesome. More research,” he mutters as he turns back to the sink. He hears Cas push his chair back and head towards the kitchen door.

“Dean.”

“Yeah?”

“I am glad you are all right.”

Dean doesn’t respond and the angel’s footsteps retreat down the hallway. He tries to focus on the pans, which are now thankfully easier to clean since sitting in the soapy water while they had talked. The day’s events keep circling through his mind. The way Claire had stared at him—through him. The dullness of the Mark’s anger when she had touched the scar. The thought of this kid containing Cas’ Grace. Suddenly, another memory blares through the din, a memory he has been trying to repress in the past few weeks.

_Cain’s face loomed over him, and Dean’s eyes burned in the barn’s lights and there was blood dripping down his face. The man had spoken calmly, as though he often pontificated on the murderous intents of others like he was commenting on the weather—although, considering he was the Father of Murder, perhaps this was not so far-fetched. The words had driven into Dean’s skull, pierced his heart, ripped out his soul._

_Cain had said Dean was living Cain’s life in reverse. The murders that would break him, would turn him back into the demon that he knows lurks just under the surface._

“ _And then you’d kill the angel, Castiel. Now, that one…that I suspect would hurt something awful.”_

Dean’s breath catches as Cain’s words echo in his head. The pan drops from his hands, the metal clanking loudly in the sink. The Mark seems to throb on his arm, and he stands there for what seems like an eternity, his hands locked onto the edges of the sink, as though this appliance is the only thing that can hold him up and save him. He closes his eyes and tries to push down the memories of the barn. If only it were possible to salt-and-burn a memory. Dean considers getting out the bottle of whiskey and downing half of it, but he knows it won’t help. After a few minutes, he feels his heartbeat slow and his breathing becomes regular again. The Mark returns to a dull ache.

Ten minutes later, the kitchen is spotless again and Dean is in his room on his bed, Zeppelin blaring into his ears from his headphones as he stares distantly at the closed door.


	5. Motherly Advice

After all of the weird and terrible shit Sam has been through, he finds it a bit amusing that the supernatural soap opera drama unfolding in the bunker is what’s finally throwing him for a loop. When they are out on a case, Sam is usually the one to sympathize with the victims or witnesses, but there is a huge difference between being kind during a twenty minute interview and figuring out what the hell to do with Claire Novak, his angel friend’s vessel’s daughter ( _seriously, supernatural soap opera—this is our life_ , he thinks), since she showed up yesterday. He and Dean and Cas have been hitting the books hard, trying to find something about angelic Grace and the Mark, but nothing has turned up so far; meanwhile, Claire has been an odd presence in the bunker. He isn't sure if she hates them or not, whether she wants to stay or leave. And to be honest, he doesn't have a clue what to do about it.

He runs his hands through his hair, leans against a counter by the fridge, then digs out his phone. He quickly thumbs through his contacts—there aren’t many left—until he finds the right one.

“Sam?”

"Hey, Jody. How’re you doing? How’s Alex?”

“We’re doing ok, same as usual. You’re not calling to tell me there’s demons in Sioux Falls or that I need to bail you boys out of jail or something, are you? I could really use the weekend off,” she half-teases. Sam smiles; yep, the sheriff was the right person to call.

“No, no, nothing like that. I just, uh, I need some advice. Thought you might be able to help.”

“Sure, shoot.”

It takes Sam about twenty minutes to fill Jody in on the whole history of Cas and Claire, as well as the most recent dilemma. Even though Jody has seen her fair share of the things that go bump in the night, she has never met Cas and only found out about the existence of angels about a year ago. Jody listens without comment, only stopping him a couple times with questions. Not for the first time, Sam is grateful for having someone like Jody who takes everything like this in stride, although it also pains him to think about what has brought her to this point in her life.

“So, now we have Claire here, and I gotta be honest, I have no idea how to deal with a teenage girl,” he finishes somewhat lamely.

At this Jody laughs, but not maliciously.

“Sam,  _that’s_  what your problem is?”

“Huh?”

“Look, I have an adopted daughter with vampiric Stockholm Syndrome and you guys have a former angel vessel who’s lost every family she knows while said angel wears her father’s face. Trust me, the fact that they are teenage girls is  _not_  the headline.”

“I guess you’re right.” If anyone else had said this to him, Sam imagines he probably would have felt dumb and defensive. But there’s something about Jody that makes him feel comfortable, like she knows he’s trying and that it’s ok if he messes up. It’s not something Sam has had a lot of in his life.

“Claire needs some stability and love right now. Not because she's a teenage girl, but because of what has happened to her. She’s just a person. Treat her like any other human being in distress, and you’ll be ok.”

“Yeah, I’ve just…I’ve never done this before. I’ve never had to take care of someone like this,” he admits.

“You’re not alone in this. You have Dean, too. And Cas.”

“Dean’s not…in a good place right now.”

"True, but you said it sounded like he and Claire were finally starting to see eye-to-eye, right?”

"Well, they haven’t killed each other yet. And they talked earlier. So yeah, I guess.”

“And you turned out ok, didn’t you?”

"What? What do I have to do with this?”

“Sam, think about it. Dean watched out for you when you were a kid and you boys both turned out good. Do you really think that Dean was somehow more qualified when he was twelve than he is right now? Or than you are right now?”

Sam doesn’t reply right away. Even though neither brother has ever really told Jody much about their childhoods, she still put most of the pieces together. Sam feels a little bit ashamed and guilty. He knows just how much Dean has done for him in the past, and in truth there were times his brother was more of a parent than his own dad. If Dean could do this when they were kids, he can do this now.

“Ok,” he sighs out after a moment. “You’re right, Jody. Thanks.”

“No problem. Now you boys just ring me up if there’s anything I can do. Or if you just need to talk. You’ll be fine, Sam.”

“Will do. Thanks again, I mean it.”

They wish each other good-bye, and Sam pockets his phone just in time for Claire to crash in and start raiding the cabinets for a snack. Sam joins in and they settle for microwave popcorn, a Coke for Claire, and a beer for Sam.  _Maybe this won’t be so bad after all_ , he thinks.


	6. Kill or Cure

The more Claire sees of Castiel and Dean, the more she wonders if Dean is more idiot than monster. The way the angel looks at the hunter, the fact they seem to have whole conversations without saying a word, the fact that Castiel’s personal space issues seem to be mostly reserved for when he is around Dean.

Seriously, how does he _not_ know the angel is in love with him?

On the other hand, she isn’t at all surprised at how clueless Castiel is as well. For someone who comes across as gruff and emotionally stunted, Dean doesn’t seem to mind Castiel’s constant presence or the long stares. She’s pretty confident that if anyone else pulled that crap on the older Winchester, he’d knock them down flat.

And considering the ugly scar on his arm, that might be too real of a threat.

The two days since her arrival have settled into an odd routine: the angel and brothers research, Claire watches TV or wanders around the vast bunker, they gather for awkward meals with stilted conversation. She knows there is something they aren’t telling her, knows it has something to do with Castiel’s Grace. Then again, it’s pretty clear they’re not telling each other either. Even though they spend hours poring over books or searching the Internet (which still surprises her—she seriously doubts Googling “saving someone with angelic Grace” is going to turn up sites that _wouldn’t_ be blocked by safe search settings or be from fringy church groups), she’s noticed that every now and then one will look up as though he is about to suggest something, but then the jaw will clench and the head will duck back to whatever it is he is reading.

They keep to this holding pattern until late on the second day. Claire is perusing the book stacks, stopping now and then to pull one with an interesting cover, sneezing occasionally at the dust that drifts out. Dean is sitting at the table closest to her, but his back is to her. Sam sits on the other side of the table at the far end. Castiel is standing closer to the foyer, obviously not bothered by the weight of the thick tome he has been reading. The Winchesters' table is covered in books and documents, several open at once, and Sam’s laptop is surrounded by a wall of paper and leather bindings.

It is the angel who breaks the silence, and his voice carries regret and shame.

“This is pointless. I think we all know what we must do.”

Dean looks up sharply. “ _No_ , Cas. We talked about this. There is no way in fucking hell we are doing that to her.”

Claire freezes at that last word. _What are they going to do to me?_

“It may be our only option. I don’t like it any more than you.”

“Really? Then why the fuck do you keep bringing it up?”

“Dean…” Sam says and he nods his head in Claire’s direction. Claire tries to shrink back into the book stacks, but it’s too late. They all know she’s there.

“Dammit, Cas. This is why we’re not talking about it.”

At this, Claire bristles. Ok, she may not be an Angel of the Lord or a hunter or whatever, but she’s not a _child_ , and she’s seen way more in her seventeen years than most. She can take care of herself. They don’t get to talk about her like she’s too young to know anything or can’t make her own decisions.

“Talk about what, Dean? I know there’s something you all aren't telling me. And I know it has to do with Castiel’s Grace. I’m not stupid.” Claire comes out from the shelves and crosses her arms, staring down each of the men in turn. At least Sam has the decency to look her in the eye.

“We think we might be able to use—” Sam begins.

“Sammy—” Dean growls warningly. His brother ignores him.

“—Castiel’s Grace to remove the Mark. But we would have to extract it from you.”

“What does that mean?” she asks.

Dean slams the book in front of him closed. “No. We are not doing this.” He stands up, and Claire retreats a step; he looks like he is about to punch something, and he is eying Sam murderously.

“Dean.” Castiel turns his mournful eyes towards the hunter. Claire notices that the simple word seems to cut through the hunter’s anger, and he visibly relents a bit.

"Look, as the only person here who has had angelic Grace removed, don’t you think I have a little insight on this? Claire should know. She should be able to make her own decisions.”

“Fuck that. It’s not her decision! We don’t know if it’d even work! Or what it’d do to Cas! It’s not worth the fucking risk!”

Claire’s heart clenches at the sight of what Dean’s words do to Castiel and Sam. The younger brother looks resolved, as though he is used to dealing with this from his brother and he’s not going to let him do this anymore, even if it kills him. Castiel, however, looks heartbroken, and she knows why: Dean doesn’t believe _he’s_ worth the risk.

“Yes, it is,” she says softly. The three men look at her, disbelief and betrayal on Dean’s face, surprise on Sam’s, relief and guilt and understanding on Castiel’s.

“No. I’m not listening to this. You guys can continue your little powwow, but at the end of the day, it’s a bad fucking idea and I won’t let you do it.” Without another word, Dean stalks out of the library. The silence hangs over the room. Claire looks between Sam and Castiel, but neither seems inclined to move.

“What are the risks?” she finally asks. Castiel’s eyes turn back from the direction of the bedrooms and fixate on hers. She can see the pleading in them, both for her to not risk herself and for any solution to save Dean.

“It’s incredibly painful for the vessel,” Castiel says, although he sounds as though he is reciting it from a book, trying to keep the pain out of his voice.

Claire looks to Sam for confirmation. “You said you’ve done this before.”

“Yeah,” Sam says, but the look he gives her does little to reassure her. “Dean is right about this: there is a lot of risk and a lot of pain and we can’t guarantee you’ll be ok.”

“But?”

“But, it might be the only solution we have. And I know we can’t stop you one way or another, can’t ask you to do this. But I think it’s only fair that you hear everything so you can make up our own mind.”

“What did Dean mean when he said you didn’t know what it would do to Castiel?”

Castiel looks down at the floor, then walks away into the foyer. Even Sam seems reluctant to explain, but he clears his throat and tries anyway.

“Cas says to get whatever the process—spell, ritual, I’m not sure, he hasn’t explained it all—to work, Dean has to buy into it. And that at the end, Cas will either be human or it’ll kill him.”

Even though she thinks she knows the answer to the question, she asks anyway, curious as to how much Sam knows about his brother and the angel.

“What do you mean, ‘Dean has to buy into it?’”

Sam studies her, gauging how much to say. “Cas didn’t say. But I know…” He looks up at the forlorn angel. “Cas, we know you can hear us. Just come and explain it to her for me.”

“She knows. She carries my Grace, she feels the bond. She figured out for herself what happened when she touched the Mark.” Castiel’s voice is hollow.

“And Dean knows about this? But, what, he doesn’t think you guys have that connection or whatever?” Claire tries to sound flippant about it, not wanting to out the angel’s love to Sam if the younger Winchester doesn’t already know (although, she suspects he probably does).

“Dean doesn’t want to sacrifice your wellbeing, or mine. He doesn’t believe the risks outweigh the benefits. Until he does, there’s no guarantee that my Grace would save him, and it would all be for nothing," Castiel responds.

The room falls silent again as they each become lost in their thoughts. Claire isn’t suicidal (that’s thankfully one piece of emotional baggage that she didn’t share with many of the other kids at the group home), she doesn't want to die. Nor does she want Castiel to. But Sam had lived through having angelic Grace taken out of him—whatever _that_ entailed—so there had to be a good shot she’d make it, too. Right?

Claire studies the angel and realizes that it doesn’t matter to him if he dies or not. She doesn’t believe he is suicidal, either—the angel doesn’t have a death wish—but she can see in every line in his of face that he would give anything to save Dean. He would fall and become human. He would die for Dean.

Without another word, Claire starts towards the hallway leading to the bedrooms.

“Claire?” Sam asks.

“I’m gonna talk to Dean. I don’t care if he’s pissed,” she says without stopping.   

 

 

“Dammit, Sammy, I said—” Dean starts as he opens the door.

“Hey,” Claire says and pushes past him into the room, not caring that Dean could probably kill her with barely any effort.

“You’re not giving up Cas’ Grace,” Dean says without preamble.

“What I do and what I don’t do aren’t your decisions,” she pushes back. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

“Sam and Cas send you after me? That’s pretty fucking low.”

“No. Like I said, I can make my own decisions.”

The hunter is still standing by the door, but he closes it most of the way, leaving it open a few inches.

“So, why’re you here, then? I already made up my mind.”

“Stop being a dumbass for like ten minutes. Look, I don’t particularly like you and I know you think I’m just some stupid kid, but—”

“I don’t think you’re just some stupid kid,” Dean says, and he seems a bit surprised at the admission. Claire doubts he says nice things to people very often, even backhandedly. She decides to skip past it and push on to the important part.

“You know why it has to be Castiel’s Grace, right?”

Dean self-consciously crosses his arms over his chest and shifts his weight back onto his heels. He chuckles darkly, “Yeah, he says it’s because of our bond or whatever. Guess you can’t lift a guy from Hell without leaving a mark.” Claire notices that at that last part, Dean’s right hand moves up to his left shoulder, gripping it for a few seconds before dropping back into the crook of his elbow.

“You really are a dumbass.”

“What?” Dean sputters.

“You know it’s more than that.”

Dean can’t meet her eyes and he doesn’t respond.

“Do you know what Castiel was thinking about while I was his vessel? While everything was going to shit for my dad and my mom and for me?” Suddenly, all the frustration and pain she’s carried with her these years wells up and she can’t stop from unleashing it. This isn’t what she had planned on saying, but now that she’s here, it has to be said. “ _You_ , Dean. Every time. I lose my family, but Castiel still trusts _you_.”

Dean’s lips are pursed and his green eyes are starting to well up.

“Don’t,” he says through clenched teeth.

But there’s no stopping her.

“He’s seen your soul. _I’ve_ seen your soul. Castiel _loves_ you and would do anything for you and you’re too stupid and stubborn to see it. Maybe you don’t think you’re worth saving, but Castiel does. Don’t make every other risk Castiel’s taken, every sacrifice he’s made—like _my family_ —meaningless because you can’t accept that.”

Now that she’s said it all, she feels hollowed out, empty in a way she’s never felt before. Dean’s shoulders have slumped and he covers his face in his hand for a few seconds before running the hand through his hair. She feels like vomiting, or running until her lungs give out, or curling up in a ball in the corner of the room.

“I can’t…” Dean begins, but Claire cuts him off.

“Can’t or won’t, Dean?” she asks, her voice raw with tears.

They stand there, and the moments stretch out, thick with silence. Dean breaks first.

“Even if I could, there’s no way I’m letting you put yourself through that. I saw what it did to Sammy.”

“Sam’s still here.”

“I’m not torturing a kid to save myself.”

“It’s not torture if I agree.”

The silence spreads out again, pressing in on them, suffocating them.

“I—we can't risk losing Cas.”

Claire stares at the hunter, the weight of his admission heavy on his face and heart. His hand is back on his forearm, and once again the memory of the Mark makes her stomach turn.

“He’s losing you right now,” she says in almost a whisper.

Her feet finally unstick from the floor and she leaves the room, running to her own. She throws herself on the bed, curling around a pillow. She doesn’t cry, or sleep, or even think. The hours pass, and she hears a knock on the door, but she ignores it. She doesn’t care who it is, doesn’t care that she thinks she hears the clink of a plate being set down outside the door.

She just wishes she could go home.

 


	7. So Close

The car still makes him laugh. Dean will never understand why Cas picked the POS Lincoln Continental, although in some weird way, it just makes sense. But whatever his opinion on the vehicle, Dean figures he might as well keep it running for the angel so he doesn’t end up stranded somewhere again.

At least now Cas understands about cars needing gas.

Dean’s been under the hood for a couple hours or so, tightening this, tinkering with that. Since moving into the bunker, Dean has been slowly updating the Men of Letter’s stock of tools in the garage, although he has been pleasantly surprised at how many are still perfectly serviceable and in good condition.

 _Just don’t make ‘em like they used to_ , Dean thinks, half-grinning at the cliché, and also eyeing Baby parked a few spots down. It feels good to be doing something with his hands, something familiar and fixable, something to keep his mind off the conversation he’d had with Claire the night before.

The truth of what she said weighs heavily on him, and he had spent the previous night staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Finally, at 6 am, he'd given up, and come down to the garage for some peace from his thoughts.

The moment doesn’t last, though, and he hears Cas’ footsteps echo in the garage.

“Got your car mostly tuned up, except I gotta pick up oil. And you’re lucky you haven’t gotten stuck, the alternator—”

“Thank you, Dean,” Cas says, effectively cutting off the car talk.

“Yeah, sure, don’t mention it,” Dean grumbles, wiping his hands on an grease-stained rag and turning to face the angel.

“Claire has finally come out of her room,” Cas states simply, and Dean’s stomach knots.

“Yeah? That’s good. You know we should probably see if she needs anything. I mean, we’ve got food and stuff, but I don’t think she has much of her own, like clothes and whatever—”

“Dean, you’re right, Claire may need material things, but I don’t think they are the most pressing matter here.” Beneath the relative calm in Cas' voice, there's an inkling of that same tone the angel had once used to threaten throwing Dean back into Hell. The hunter squares his shoulders, as though preparing for a physical fight; Cas responds in kind. 

“I’m not fucking talking about this again, Cas. I told you yesterday—hell I’ve been telling you all for days—I’m not putting her through that just on the off chance we get some angelic mojo for me.”

“I understand that, Dean. But that is Claire’s decision, not yours,” Cas says, and Dean can hear the frustration building in the angel’s voice.

“I can’t ask that of her. I have no _right_ to ask,” Dean says, his voice reverberating off of the bare concrete. Cas doesn’t reply, and Dean once again notices the strain in the angel’s body. Something inside Dean snaps, and even though he knows it’s completely unfair to Cas, he lets loose. “What the fuck do you guys want from me? I’m a fucking monster, and we’ve looked for months—months!—for a cure, and now, the only possible solution we have is torture the girl whose fake family I massacred? Cain’s dead, I killed him, too, and you know what he told me? _He couldn’t stop._ The guy lived for fucking centuries with the Mark and now we suddenly think we have this magic solution for me? Oh and let’s not forget the fact that you said this could _kill you!_ ”

Cas’s jaw tightens. “There is a good possibility that won’t happen. I’m willing to take that chance.”

“Yeah, well I’m not willing! I told you, man, if I go dark again, you take me out! Until then, no one is putting their ass on the line, sacrificing themselves. It’s not worth it.” Dean’s voice is quickly becoming hoarse, but he doesn’t care. Cas’ eyes glint in hurt and anger. The angel steps up within inches of Dean, his blue eyes locked on his own.

“Has it ever occurred to you that perhaps saving yourself is how you can save those around you?” Castiel says in a low gravel.

“What?”

“You are always so willing to sacrifice yourself for everyone else, but have you never considered what that does to those you leave behind? Do you think Sam was better off with you gone? Do you think I—” Cas cuts off, although Dean suspects what the rest of that sentence would have been, and his stomach clenches. There are a thousand things Dean wants to say, and a thousand reasons why he just wants this conversation to _end_. Now.

“We don’t even know if it would work, Cas. Nothing saved Cain, so why would this save me?” Dean’s arms feel useless, like they should be doing something, anything, other than hang by his sides as he stands here and says this. The angel studies his face, and Dean wonders—and not for the first time—how much he can sense about Dean’s thoughts.

“Cain lived peacefully for many years with the Mark,” Cas finally says. “Perhaps there is hope.”

“Yeah, except he finally snapped after his wife died and became a murderous bastard again. I told you, he said it himself, there’s no cure. I’m going to end up just like him!” Dean turns back to the car, tossing the rag which has been clenched in his hand on the engine. He runs a hand through his hair, not caring if he ends up with black streaks.

“Dean,” Cas begins, and the hunter can hear the hesitation and fear in the angel’s voice.

 _Please don’t ask me about this. Please._ He wonders if Cas will hear that prayer. After Cain’s murder, Dean had only told Sam and Cas the barest details of what happened or was said during the fight. The memories and nightmares were haunting enough; saying it out loud just seems unbearable. Either the prayer doesn’t go through, or Cas chooses to ignore it.

“Dean,” he repeats, “what did Cain tell you exactly?”

 _Shit, I can’t talk about this. I can’t._ He takes a few deep breaths, then swallows thickly. “He, uh, he said I was living his life in reverse. That it was inevitable I’d end up like him.” Dean refuses to turn around again, so naturally Cas moves beside the car to face Dean.

“What do you mean, ‘living his life in reverse?’”

This is not where Dean had wanted this conversation to go. Hell, he hadn’t wanted to have this conversation at all. But, he still answers after a moment, “He said I’d kill Crowley, then you, then Sam. That I’d break, that I’d turn into a savage like he did.”

Cas considers this, and Dean wonders if he will come to the same conclusion he had, a conclusion that had agonized him—is still agonizing him. _“That I suspect would hurt something awful.”_ He doesn’t have to wonder for very long: the look on Cas’ face tells him everything he needs to know.

“Dean—”

“I can’t risk becoming that. Losing Sammy if this doesn’t work and I go dark. I can’t…I can’t ask you to do this and then lose you, Cas.” Dean is surprised to see a wan smile on the angel’s face.

“You haven’t lost me yet. I’ve always come back so far.”

Dean chuckles bitterly at that. “Yeah, we Winchesters are hard to kill and keep dead.” His eyes widen, suddenly aware of what he has said. Cas’ eyes meet his, questioning and hopeful. Dean coughs a bit, then aims for a joking tone. “What can I say, Cas? You’re family. Dying a few times and coming back seems to be prerequisite to be a Winchester.”

Cas doesn’t respond, and once again, they leave so many things unsaid. Dean can see the hurt in Cas’s eyes. _Christ, I fucked it all up again._ The angel tenses, visibly pushing down his emotions, and the voice that comes out is cold.

“If what Cain said is true, and if you talked to Claire,” Cas says carefully, “then you should know why I believe this plan will work. When you are ready to accept that, you know where I’ll be.”

“Cas—” Dean tries, but the angel has left the garage, which now seems far emptier than it had before he arrived. Angry with himself, he snatches the rag from the engine, and lets the hood fall harder than necessary. They had been so close. So close.


	8. A Break from the Bunker

She hears the rustle of Castiel’s trenchcoat as he stalks past her room, coming from the direction of the garage. Claire can hear the anger in his footsteps, and she sticks her head out the door just in time to see him turn the corner.

“Castiel!” she calls, but he does not respond or return. She starts to follow him, then stops, and turns back in the other direction. As she walks towards the garage, her anger and frustration starts to boil up again. Had nothing she or Castiel said made a difference to Dean?

Picking up speed as she nears the garage, arguments and insults on the tip of her tongue, she storms into the room…and pulls up short, everything she wants to say flying from her mind.

Dean sits on the ground, leaning against his car, elbows on drawn up knees, arms dangling awkwardly over his well-scuffed boots. For the first time since she’s met him, he’s not wearing some sort of plaid or overshirt—just a grey t-shirt, and the Mark is red and angry and exposed on his arm. He has a deadened look in his eyes, but as soon as he sees her, he pulls himself up off the floor and brushes his hands off on the sides of his jeans.

“You and Cas double-teaming me? Sammy gonna come in next with a motivational speech?” he jokes feebly.

“I saw Castiel go by my room. He seemed angry.”

Dean hrmphs, goes over to Castiel’s car, and starts collecting the tools scattered about. Claire watches him for a few seconds, then joins him, handing him an assortment of wrenches.

They work silently for a while, cleaning up the garage, and Claire thinks about how much has changed in the last few days. She came here thinking Dean Winchester was a monster, that he was the asshole who ruined her life, and now here she is, cleaning a garage with him and contemplating doing something dangerous to save his life. She hasn’t forgotten or completely forgiven him, but the last few days of home-cooked meals and watching him and Castiel around each other have certainly helped improved her opinion of him.

“Thank you,” she mumbles as they toss their rags on the tool bench. Dean looks at her, confused. “For, uh, not kicking me out and cooking and everything.”

The hunter looks genuinely surprised, and perhaps a little embarrassed. “Uh, yeah, sure. No problem.”

Claire chews her lip, then looks around the garage and at all of old-fashioned cars parked in neat rows. “Can we get out of here for a bit? I mean, the bunker’s cool and all, but I’ve been underground for three days straight. And no offense, but I need a break from the tense study hall sessions you guys’ve got going on.”

Dean lets out a deep breath, then reaches into his pocket, jingling his keys. “Sure. Let me grab my coat. I’ll tell Sam we’re heading out.”

Fifteen minutes later, Claire is perusing the rather limited menu of the area’s only diner. Dean has a black coffee in front of him, although Claire thinks he looks like he’d rather have a beer. She sips from her water, then orders a bacon cheeseburger. Dean gives her an approving look before telling the waitress he’ll have the same.

They hadn’t talked much on the way over, just listened to the classic rock station that Dean had turned to. The conversation doesn’t pick up in the diner, and for a few minutes they sit quietly, each wrapped up in thought.

She wants to talk to him about Castiel, about the Mark, but after last night, she doesn’t know how to even begin to bring that up again. Whatever happened between the angel and the hunter in the garage earlier had clearly upset both of them, and she doesn’t know what to do about it.

Their meals come, and the burger is good in that diner kind of way—you know it’s not gourmet, but it’s got plenty of cheese, and grease, and ketchup, and that’s all you really wanted in the first place. The fries leave something to be desired, and Claire only munches on a few before she gives up on them, and instead decides to end the silence and dive right in.

“Why was Castiel upset with you this morning?”

Dean pauses mid-chew, and his face clouds over. He resumes, swallows, and puts down the burger. He leans back in the booth, and looks out the window.

“Nothing. We talked. I told him the whole angelic Grace mojo thing was a bad idea and dangerous.”

“Right,” she scoffs. Dean looks at her sharply, and he clears his throat.

“Fine. I don’t know why I’m telling you this,” he says with a tinge of anger. “We talked about how I killed Cain, ok? We talked about how Cain said there was no cure and that I would end up just as fucked up as he did.”

“And that’s what got Castiel all upset?”

“Yeah,” Dean says, and picks up the burger again, taking an unnecessarily forceful bite and chewing determinedly.

Claire doesn’t say anything, just watches him for a minute, and stirs the ice in her water with the straw. She knows that more happened between them in the garage, and she wants to be angry with Dean, but once again, something inside her squashes those feelings, and instinctively she understands that whatever Dean said to the angel was not what he truly meant or felt.

“Dean?” she says. He looks up and she steadily meets those green eyes across from her. “What if…what if I told you I don’t want to be part angel anymore? That I’m going to ask Sam and Castiel to take out the Grace anyway? Would that change your mind about anything?”

“It’s still dangerous for you.”

“I know. That’s not why I’m asking.”

“I know.” The hunter pushes his plate away, leaving a quarter of burger untouched. “I don’t know, Claire. I can’t ask that of Cas.”

“You don’t have to ask. He’s gonna to try to save you no matter what, but the only way he can is if you let him.”

Dean smirks half-heartedly. “You’re quite the therapist for a kid.”

“Not a kid.”

“Yeah, I know.”

They sit in silence until the waitress comes over with the check. Dean leaves a few bills on the table and they head back to the Impala. When Dean pulls out of the parking lot, though, Claire is confused when they head in the opposite direction of the bunker.

“Where’re we going?”

“Pick up supplies,” Dean answers evasively.

Claire wonders what supplies they could possibly need—Sam had just been to the store yesterday and the bunker always seems well stocked with, well, everything. Eventually, they pull into a Walmart a few towns over, and Claire snorts lightly as the Impala squeezes into a spot between a Prius and a minivan. She looks out the window at the shoppers coming and going from the store. They look so…normal. She’d forgotten what that was like, not that she and Dean are really doing a good job of blending in with this beast of a car. She follows Dean into the store where she almost runs into him when he stops and hands her a basket.

“What’s this for?”

“Thought you might need stuff—I dunno, change of clothes or whatever. Noticed you didn’t have much in your bag and it’s kind of falling apart,” he says gruffly.

She raises her eyebrows and laughs. “You’re almost as much of a dork as Castiel, you know that, right?” But, she takes the basket, and Dean seems a bit relieved.

“I’ll, uh, meet you at the front when you’re done. I’m gonna pick up some stuff while I’m here,” he says and he digs out his wallet. He digs out a credit card, checks the name, and hands it to her. “Keep it under fifty and they usually don’t need a signature.”

It doesn’t take her long to pick up some essentials—a few t-shirts, some socks, shampoo and conditioner (Claire had learned quickly at the bunker that apparently even guys with long hair like Sam have no idea what is decent shampoo and what isn’t), some other basic toiletries, a new bag—and heads back to the registers. She sees Dean standing by the door, a plastic bag in his hand.

“What’d you pick up?” she asks as she walks over to him, handing him the credit card and receipt.

“Cas’ car needs an oil change. Figured I’d hit the auto department while I was here.”

“He has the stupidest car,” she says with a grin, and is pleased to see Dean grin back.

“Yeah, but it’s Cas. It kinda fits him, you know?”

She does know, and she nods.

“Hey, uh, thanks. Again,” she says.

“Sure.”

The ride back to the bunker is mostly quiet again, but about five minutes out from home— _when did I start calling the bunker home??_ she thinks in a near panic—Claire breaks the silence.

“Dean? You know you’re worth it, right?”

Dean’s eyes stare straight down the road, and he doesn’t answer. For half a second, she swears she sees the corner of his mouth twitch up. It isn’t much, but maybe it’s progress.


	9. Not Your Decision

“Are you sure, Claire?” Sam asks, looking from the girl standing determinedly in front of the library tables to Castiel, who is sitting across from him. Sam’s thankful Dean isn’t here for this conversation; ever since the night before when Claire first asked about the plan to remove Cas’ Grace, his brother has been avoiding the library. He suspects Dean’s back in the garage; Claire had mentioned something about motor oil for Cas’ car when the two of them had returned.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she answers, as though explaining this to a very small child. “I don’t want the Grace, don’t want to be part angel anymore. It’s not mine, it’s not me. Castiel should have his Grace back, then he can do whatever he wants with it.”

Sam looks back at Cas, who is sitting very stilly through this whole discussion. He knows what Claire is really trying to do, and he also knows what the angel is thinking. The stolen Grace he currently possesses will start to weaken him; he would have to cut it out and fall or replenish it with more anyway. But even if Cas does get his own Grace back, Sam knows it won’t be for long. Cas has done and would do anything for Dean; and even though Sam doesn’t know all the details of everything that has happened between the angel and his brother— he has only caught snatches here and there of what went down in Purgatory, for instance—he knows his brother has done and would do anything for Cas. He would just never admit it, the stubborn bastard.

He leans back in his chair and nods at Claire. “I get it. You want to be you again.” Sam knows all too well what it’s like to have your body not be your own, to have something inside you that isn’t you. “Cas?”

The angel turns his attention from Claire to Sam. In the back of his mind, Sam wonders how Dean has never seemed to mind Cas’ stares, although thankfully for Sam, his own with the angel never last very long.

Cas regards Claire again as he speaks, “Claire, you do not have to do this for me. I know you _say_ you are doing this for you, but is it really what you want?”

“Yes already.”

Cas sighs with resignation.

“You sure you can do this, Cas?” Sam asks. While he understands the basic idea, Sam has only been on the patient end of the procedure and was far too focused on the pain than the nuances of what Cas was doing when Gadreel’s Grace was extracted. Cas will have to be the one to do it to Claire. The angel nods.

“Well, let’s do it then,” Claire says, and Sam observes how she crosses her arms, trying to look nonchalant, but there is fear lurking beneath the surface.

Sam gets up and puts a hand on her shoulder, and looks her in the eyes. “It’s going to be ok.”

She nods, and he and Cas go to prepare.

 

 

Cas’ face looks like it has been carved from stone, and Sam wishes there were something he could do for either him or Claire other than stand by in support. The spelled syringe has just an inkling of swirling blue-white light in it when Claire lets out the first scream.

“ _Claire!_ ” Dean’s voice echoes from the hallway. Sam moves to intercept his brother, who has come tearing into the library, fury and betrayal and worry etched in every line of his face. “Cas, what the fuck are you doing?!”

“Dean! Dean! Stop! It’s ok! Claire wants this! She asked us!” Sam says, grabbing Dean by the shoulders and forcing him back from Cas and Claire. There is murder in his brother’s eyes, and Sam fears he won’t be able to stop Dean without bloodshed.

“Dean…” Claire says weakly from the chair. Cas has stopped pulling out the Grace for the moment, and he stands frozen beside her.

“Claire! Let me go, Sam. Cas, you sonofabitch, stop!”

“Dean, it’s ok,” gasps Claire, and she manages to sit up a bit.

Sam feels his brother relax minutely, but he still grips Dean's shoulders. Dean finally looks at Sam, glaring, then wrestles out of Sam’s grasp. The older brother takes a step back and breathes deeply, obviously trying to calm himself.

“We agreed—”

“No, Dean. _You_ agreed. She doesn’t want the Grace. She _asked_ for this. She wants to be herself again,” Sam retorts, and even though he knows his next words will cut Dean deep, he has to get through to his brother any way he can. “I’d think _you_ of all people would understand that.”

Dean’s eyes flash dangerously at him, but they then settle and a look of shame washes over the hunter. Sam takes a breath, relieved; he hates that he had to throw this in Dean’s face, but the shame is better than his brother seeing red like that.

Dean pushes past Sam, and Sam makes no move to stop him. The older Winchester stops just inches from Cas, and Sam fruitlessly tries to decode whatever silent communication the two share for a few seconds before Dean speaks.

“Cas, you hurt her, and I swear to God—”

“I know,” Cas replies morosely.

The stare-off resumes, and Sam worries that Dean is about to snap again. But he doesn’t, and instead looks down at Claire. Sam sees how tightly she is gripping the armrests, and the memory of being in the same position a year ago makes him shudder. If there were any other way, he would jump at the chance to save Claire from this.

“You don’t have to do this,” Dean says quietly. Claire just nods, and looks between Cas and Dean.

“Yes, I do. I want to,” she replies simply. She reaches out and grabs Cas’ arm and holds it just above the wrist for a moment before letting go; the angel’s blue eyes are heavy.

“Cas,” Dean pleads. Dean realizes what this is all about, what Cas will do next, and it kills Sam to see his brother in such distress. Cas looks apologetically but resolutely at Dean, then looks down at Claire. She nods and Cas lifts the glowing syringe again. Sam has to look away—the memory of his own experience is too sharp—but before he does, he sees Claire’s hand take Dean’s.  

Claire’s scream echoes in the library.


	10. [Grace]

_I’m sorry, Jimmy. I promised I would watch over your family. I never meant for this to happen. Forgive me._

 

 

**

 

 

The pain is everything, everything except the bright blue-white light that sears her eyes through the lids, everything except the hand she grips fiercely, everything except the tightness in her throat as she screams.

 

 

**

 

 

_Dammit, Cas! She can’t take anymore. That’s gotta be enough. C’mon, Claire, you can do this, kid. It’s gonna be ok. It’s gonna be ok. Fuck this. What’re we doing, this isn’t worth it. If this works, Cas, but I lose you…_

 

 

**

 

 

_Thank you, Claire. For my brother, thank you. I’m so sorry._

 

 

**

 

 

A slit to the throat, a flash of quickly dulling borrowed Grace escaping, a weakened human body.

Blue-white Grace. _My Grace._ The light fills his body, repairing damage, filling every crevice, pouring into every fiber and muscle. The Grace is spread thin—there was little left—but in time it will replenish, and Castiel will feel _right._ It has been too long, he had almost forgotten what it was like to feel this close to whole.

He knows it will not last, that he will have to give it up soon, but for now, it is good.

Claire rests. She is safe. Dean is safe. Sam is safe.

Castiel collapses to the floor.


	11. What Ifs

He doesn’t know what he was expecting, once Cas got his mojo back. Once the Grace had been removed from Claire, Dean had carried her to her room—she had been awake, but very weak—and Sam had helped him get her settled and check her to make sure she was going to be ok.

They come back to the library and see Cas collapsed on the ground, his arms struggling to lift his torso up from the floor, his head hanging down.

“Cas!” Dean yells as his heart thuds, the image of Cas slumped over that fatal angel blade wound in his chest rising unbidden in his mind’s eye; Dean’s boots echo on the tile as he runs to the angel. 

“I’m fine, Dean,” the angel rasps.

“Yeah, you look fine. I thought getting your Grace back was supposed to make you better, not worse.” He maneuvers Cas into one of the library chairs, then tilts the angel’s face towards up so he can examine him thoroughly, cupping his palm around Cas’ jaw, his fingers brushing the angel’s dark hair. Cas' expression is one of exhaustion, but even so, on the whole he seems better, less worn and frayed. The harmful effects of the stolen Grace had been subtle and gradual, but now the comparison is painfully obvious to the hunter. _Nice, Winchester. So wrapped up in your own shit that you didn’t even notice your best friend was dying slowly._ With Cas’ mussed and unkempt hair, the crooked tie, and that ineffable aura of Grace, Dean is reminded of the first time he saw the angel all of those years back in that barn in Illinois.

“My Grace has a lot to repair. There was very little in Claire’s body, and so it will also need to replenish itself.” Cas’ blue eyes are wide, and to Dean they seem even brighter than usual. Behind him, Dean hears Sam pick up his laptop from the table and retreat back towards the bedrooms, but the realization is distant, unimportant.

Cas puts a hand on his right forearm, and even though the fabric of his shirt, Dean can feel the calming thrum of Grace on the Mark.

“Don’t, Cas. You need to take care of yourself,” Dean says quietly, choosing his next words deliberately. “ _I_ need you to take care of yourself.” It’s the closest Dean will come to saying what he means, but luckily Cas seems to remember the crypt as well as Dean does, and the angel’s mouth curves into a small smile. Dean’s hand is still on the side of Cas’ face, and Dean closes his eyes and leans his forehead against Cas’. They stay there for a moment, holding each other, before breaking away.

“Dean?” Cas asks, his voice laden with worry, and Dean wants to laugh and weep at the fact that once again, Cas is concerned if _he’s_ all right and doesn’t seem to care about himself.

Dean rubs his eye with the base of his palm, then sinks into a chair. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, his eyes fixated on a crack in a floor tile between his feet. No matter how much he protests, he knows Cas is going to do whatever the hell he wants anyway, and for some reason, that usually means sacrificing everything for Dean. _I can’t let him do this, not again_ , he thinks stubbornly.

“I always fuck everything up, Cas—I’m the reason you lost your army, the reason you got cut off from Heaven—and for what? You can’t do it again. Don’t give this all up on the off-chance it’ll get rid of this fucking curse. You just got your mojo back, Claire is going to be ok. Call it a win, we don’t get many of them. Don’t throw that all away on a maybe, and a pretty fucking poor excuse of a maybe.” 

“Dean,” Cas says softly, but in a voice that brooks no argument, not that Dean won't try. “Saving you from the Mark will _not_ be throwing anything away.”

“It could kill you.”

“Or make me human. I seem to recall that I did quite well, all things considered, when I fell last time.”

Dean can’t help but snort at that. “You nuked taquitos.”

“And nachos. We also defeated a Rit Zien and protected an infant girl,” Cas defends, then pauses. “I don’t think I would mind a human life if I knew I had a place to belong.”

Dean raises his head, and his stomach is once again doing that _thing_ that he has no desire to analyze in any great detail. He swallows before answering. “You belong here, Cas. With us. With me.”

They sit there quietly; nothing more needs to be said aloud, for now. Even though his angel is a mere foot away, Dean still sends Cas a prayer.

 _Cas, this is home. Please stay. I need you._   

Dean looks up to see Cas cock his head to the side, a crooked grin on his face. Dean returns it.


	12. Confessions

The bunker is quiet, although Claire is pretty sure she heard what must have been Sam head to the kitchen about twenty minutes ago. Ever since her de-Grace-ification the previous day, Claire has been holed up in her room recovering. Her body aches in a way that she doesn’t think she’d ever be able to explain to an actual doctor, but thankfully she’s felt more like herself as the hours go by.

Once she was more coherent, the guys had stopped in to check on her, Dean bringing his laptop to keep her entertained, and she’s thankful that Sam had prompted him to clear the browser history first because wow does she _not_ want cross that bridge with them. Even so, Dean has set her up with his Netflix account, and there is nothing in the world that will let her wrap her head around the fact that 1) Dean Winchester, badass hunter, has something as normal as a Netflix account (although, it’s probably on a fake credit card account, she figures) and 2) his most recent viewing history is mostly _Doctor Who_.

As if life in the bunker couldn’t get any more surprising.

Just as the warbling strains of _Doctor Who’s_ theme music start to roll with the final credits (Claire had tried a few other shows, but supernatural teen dramas and sitcoms just didn’t settle right with her, and after an episode or two of watching the Time Lord, she’d decided maybe Dean was on to something…not that she’d ever admit it), Castiel pops his head into her room. Claire looks up from the screen, and once again, she’s amazed to see the difference in the angel since regaining his Grace. It’s strange, though, looking at him—she no longer feels the instinctual pull towards the angel, but the connection has been replaced with something more…human (ironically, considering).

“Claire?” Castiel says, hesitantly.

“Yeah, c’mon in,” Claire allows, closing the laptop and putting it aside.

Once again, the angel takes the chair by the bed and looks at her with grave concern.

“It’s good to see you are recovering,” Castiel observes, scanning her in a way that makes her think of a human-shaped MRI.

"Still hurts, but yeah, I feel better than I did. How’re you doing?”

“I expect I will be back to full power by the end of the day, or perhaps tomorrow. My Grace is still repairing the damage to my body…” Castiel replies a bit awkwardly, and Claire knows that the faraway look in his eye is in deference of, and regret for, her father’s memory. Her eyes start to prick with tears, but she blinks rapidly and takes a few deep breaths. No matter how well she comes to know the angel, she will never be able to fully get over the fact that he has her father’s body, even if Jimmy Novak is no longer there.

"How ‘bout Dean? Are you still going to fall?”

“Yes, once I am fully restored, I plan on using my Grace to rid him of the Mark.”

“Even if he resists?”

“He will resist, and the spell won't work unless he lets it. But I will continue to try,” the angel replies simply, as though it is a fundamental fact of the universe that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, will do whatever he can to save Dean Winchester, despite the hunter’s stubbornness.

In all truth, it probably _is_ a fundamental fact of the universe.

“Claire,” Castiel begins again in a decidedly concerned and parental voice, and Claire has a sudden suspicion she is _not_ going to like the direction of the conversation. For someone who just became a full-blown angel again, Castiel can be surprisingly human when he wants to be. “When this is all over and you have recovered, do you have plans for yourself?”

Claire swears she can almost hear the hope in his voice; she knows what he wants her to answer, but she doesn’t know if she can. It’s odd—in the last week, she has felt more at home here with these people she had every intention of despising, but the turmoil of her life over the last few years panics at the thought of anything permanent.

“Nah, haven’t really thought about it,” she answers, trying to sound casual. “You know me—better on my own and all that. Can’t get stuck here with you guys and besides, I don’t think having a teenage girl hanging around is really high on anyone’s priority list here.”

The minute she says it, she feels guilty; for a celestial being with an often detached social presence, Castiel has no poker face, and he resettles himself in the chair, trying not to show his disappointment.

“Of course. You are almost an adult now. I understand that you want to make your own decisions,” he replies in his most neutral voice. He gets up and walks towards the door, pausing before he leaves. The angel seems unsure of what to say for a moment, and he regards her intently. “I hope that whatever you decide, you end up safe and well.”

Before she can reply, the trenchcoat disappears into the hallway.

 

 

By dinner time, Claire figures she can manage moving around the bunker, and even if she isn’t quite ready, she’s desperate for a change of scenery. What she wouldn’t give for a few windows in this place.

She makes her way slowly to the kitchen, and hears a few plates clatter onto the table. Dean is setting out two places with dishes, and one with just a beer, and a third plate is on the counter next to the stove where a pot of spaghetti steams. Sam looks up from the table, where he is hunched over a book and barely aware of the plate Dean is trying to shove next to him, and Dean follows his gaze.

“Hey, Claire. Good to see you up,” Sam says, shutting his book and shifting his chair to make more room for the fourth. Dean grabs the plate by the stove and sets it on the table; clearly he had been planning on bringing her dinner to her room.

“Thanks,” she says and eases into a chair. “Where’s Castiel?”

“Fuck if I know,” Dean grumbles, turning back to the counters and grabbing the rest of the meal.

Claire shoots Sam a look once the older brother’s back is turned. Sam just rolls his eyes in commiserating exasperation, and replies with a silent _I’ll explain later_.

As if on cue, the angel comes into the kitchen and sits where there is just a beer and no plate. Claire notices that Dean barely acknowledges his presence, although she does catch him side-eyeing the angel as he clatters a serving spoon onto the table next to the bowl of pasta.

They each serve themselves, although Claire only manages to eat a small portion of spaghetti and sauce. It’s good, but she still can’t handle that much food yet. Sam and Dean are really the only ones who talk as they eat, Sam telling Dean about a potential case brewing a few states over. Claire only half listens as the brothers discuss whether they think it’s a poltergeist or some other kind of nasty, and instead observes Castiel, who quietly sips his beer, picks the label off absently, and stares at Dean. Dean seems to be purposefully avoiding looking in the direction of the angel.

The tension is awkward as hell, and Claire is glad she has the excuse of not feeling well to avoid staying in the kitchen and helping clean up once dinner is over. She considers heading back to her room, but ultimately decides on the TV room, and she settles into the couch. About fifteen minutes later, Sam comes in, taking a seat in the armchair. Claire mutes the TV.

“What the heck was _that_ about?” she asks, and luckily the younger Winchester seems to know exactly what she’s referring to.

“I love my brother, but he can be kind of an asshat,” Sam sighs. “If someone’s hurt or needs protecting or saving, Dean’s there, he’s ready to give body and soul—and I mean that literally. You should have seen him when we got back from settling you into bed and we found Cas on the ground.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. I mean, Cas was _fine_ , he’d just gotten his Grace back—but Dean ran over to him like the guy’d just been run over by a truck and was on his death bed. I actually just took my laptop and left because, well, I was _clearly_ a third wheel there.”

Claire snorts. The more she has gotten to know Dean Winchester, the more she has come to realize that he is _not_ the super-macho douche he tries to come across as. And she has the Netflix history to prove it.

“But what about now?” she asks. “They get into a fight or something?”

“No, that’s just it. Like I said, Dean’s your guy if you need saving, but as soon as the tables are turned or you try to do something good for _him_ , he just freakin’ checks out.” Sam regards her for a minute. “You know, other than our friend Charlie, I think you’re the only person I’ve ever said that to.”

“Thanks?” Claire says, strangely pleased. “And Castiel?”

Sam considers, running a hand through his hair. “I dunno. He was pretty wrecked this summer when we couldn’t find Dean and he was a demon—”

“Dean was a _demon?_ ”

“Oh, uh, yeah…he got better.”

“Seriously? You guys have freakin’ messed up lives when you brother gets turned into a demon and you quote _Monty Python_ about it like it’s nothing.”

“Trust me, it wasn’t nothing,” Sam says quietly, and Claire feels a twinge of remorse. Clearly, it’s a touchy subject. “Anyway, Cas was pretty messed up over Dean then, but considering Dean being stand-offish is kind of his _modus operandi_ , I imagine Cas is used to it by now. He might be upset, but either he’s just too in love with my brother to care or he knows Dean’ll come around eventually.”

So Sam _does_ know. Not surprising; the younger Winchester seems pretty intuitive.

“What’re you going to do about it?”

“Me?” Sam says with a sarcastic laugh. “Nothing. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve _tried_ , but if there’s one thing my brother’s good at, it’s avoiding talking about anything important or remotely involving feelings.”

“Well, someone’s gotta do something,” Claire says decisively. _Seriously, when did I start caring about what happens to Dean Winchester and Castiel?_

“Good luck,” Sam smirks bitterly, then reaches over for the remote, unmuting the TV.

 

 

The awkward tension between Castiel and Dean lasts another day before Claire decides she can’t take it anymore. She feels about 90% back to normal, and so she figures she’s ready to take on the hunter. Once again, she finds him in the garage, although this time he’s tuning up a motorcycle that looks about a hundred years old—and considering all of the old-timey stuff in the bunker, it probably is.

“Hey, Dean.”

“Hey,” he grunts, clearly more focused on the bike engine than her. After a moment, he finally clues in that she’s still there, and he puts down the engine part to regard her. “You’re looking better. How’re you doing?”

“Fine, I guess,” she answers, chewing her lip. She’d had a plan, but now that she’s here, she doesn’t know what to say. She stands awkwardly for a minute as Dean waits expectantly.

“What’s up, kid?” Dean eventually asks, settling onto a stool and taking a swig from the beer that had been sitting next to it.

Claire bristles at the name, but only a tiny bit. For some reason, it doesn’t bother her like it would have a few weeks ago. She looks around, and Dean suddenly jumps off from the stool and swings it over in her direction. She sits on it gratefully, and Dean instead leans back against a pillar dividing the bay where the motorcycle is parked from an empty space next door.

“You still have the Mark,” she says. _Smooth opening, Claire. Good one._

Dean tenses up, and he crosses his arms across his chest.

“Yeah.”

“And you’re avoiding Castiel.”

Dean’s jaw clenches, and Claire worries that he’s about to get angry. “Look, I’m glad he’s got his Grace back and he can be SuperAngel again. I’m glad you’re all right and you’re just a regular kid again. But that’s it. I told Cas that if I snap again and go evil, he’s gotta take me out. That’s the standing arrangement, and I’m fucking sticking to it.”

“Dean, this is stupid. And you know it. How many times do we have to tell you that you’re worth saving—”

“Drop it, Claire,” Dean warns.

“No, Dean,” she says forcefully. “I’m not leaving here until you agree to stop being an ass to Castiel and do something to save yourself for a change.”

“That’s not—” Dean growls as he starts to pace across the garage.

Claire’s had it. She is so done with this crap.

“Then, what, Dean?! What?!”

“You know what!” Dean explodes. “Everybody fucking knows what! I. Can’t. Lose. Him. Not again. I nearly drank myself to fucking death after we thought he drowned with the Leviathan. I hacked my way through goddamn Purgatory to fucking find the sonofabitch and then he stayed behind _on purpose_. He nearly fucking killed me and just when I told him I _needed_ him, he left. Again. And then, I was a jackass and kicked him out of the bunker when he didn’t have a clue about how to be a human because I thought it’d save Sam. I fucked things up with this fucking Mark of Cain. And now, Cas has his Grace, and now everyone expects me to just let him risk his _life_ for me? I just got him _back_. I am _not_ fucking losing him. I can’t do it again. I fucking _won’t_.”

Claire’s mouth drops open. Dean is breathing heavily, and his eyes are wide with the realization of all that he has just admitted.

“Dean—”

“Fuck it. I’m outta here,” Dean says, his voice hoarse. Before she can stop him, Dean digs out his keys, slides behind the wheel of the Impala, and tears out of the garage.

As fast as she can, Claire runs to find Sam and Castiel. Thankfully, they are in their usual spot—the library—and she bursts into the room, startling Sam.

“Dean’s gone,” she says, and without a word, the three of them rush out to follow him.

 

 

Luckily, Sam had had the foresight once they had de-demonized Dean to turn on his brother’s phone's GPS, but even so, Claire despairs at catching up with Dean before he does something incredibly stupid. But, surprisingly, Dean’s phone pegs him only a few miles outside of town, and Cas’ car—with Sam driving—rolls up to a rest stop where the Impala is hidden from passing cars by tall hedges and sits at an angle to the road, Dean obviously having made no attempt to park inside the lines.

Claire is reminded of the day she found him sitting in the garage before their trip to the diner and store, except this time, the hunter has his head in his hands, his elbows on the roof of the car. He looks up as the Lincoln approaches, although his hands are still clasped in his hair as though they are the only things keeping his head attached to his neck. He straightens up and runs a hand over his face as he turns away from them.

Sam parks the car, and Claire is about to jump out when she catches Sam’s eyes in the rearview mirror, and he shakes his head. Castiel gets out of the car, and if his healthier look hadn’t been enough indication that he was a full angel again, the fluidity of his movements as he unfolds himself from the passenger seat would certainly do the job.

She watches Castiel approach Dean, and she is surprised and relieved that Dean doesn’t retreat or try to leave. She can’t hear what they are saying, and is tempted to roll down the window, but once Castiel puts his hand over Dean’s left shoulder, she knows this is not a scene she should hear.

“What do we do now?” she asks Sam, but he just shrugs.

“I dunno. Can’t say I’ve ever done this before.”

They sit silently and watch the argument unfold—Dean obviously protesting, although with less and less vehemence, Claire notes, and Castiel patiently but forcefully reasoning with him. Finally, Dean seems to break, and he holds his face in one hand, his shoulders hunched, his breaths shuddering. By now, Castiel is gripping both shoulders, and they lean in towards each other, their foreheads touching.

Claire’s heart feels like it is about to shatter.

Whatever Castiel is saying to Dean must be sinking in because Dean is nodding. Claire isn’t sure who moves first, but they draw back from each other and look steadily into each other’s eyes. No words could ever communicate everything that stare contains. Silently, Castiel reaches out and grabs Dean’s right arm. He yanks the sleeve up over the Mark, then clasps his right hand just below Dean’s elbow, and Dean does the same. Their left arms are each on the other’s shoulder, pulling them into towards each other. Claire can just barely make out the low rumbles of Cas' voice as he chants something in another language. Blue-white light begins to flicker and dance between the clasped arms.

The bright light meets an angry red, each trying to outshine the other. Through the glass, she can hear Dean yell in pain and anger. The light grows brighter and brighter until she and Sam are forced to close their eyes and turn away.

 _Please Castiel please,_ Claire thinks, and it is the last prayer the angel ever hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MISSING SCENE (added 6/2/16)  
> In case anyone is wondering, Dean and Cas' argument would basically be a variation on Cas' speech in 10x22:
> 
> Dean looks up at Cas, then runs a hand over his mouth. "What do you want?"
> 
> Cas looks at him with those soulful eyes, and then replies with his own question. "Why did you leave?"
> 
> "Fuck. You know why, Cas. This whole plan, this whole...everything."
> 
> "It might cure you."
> 
> Dean barks a bitter laugh. "Oh, so what? It might take this crap off my arm? But even if it does, what's it gonna cost? 'Cause a plan like that does not come free. No, it comes with a price that you pay in blood. So thanks, but I'm good."
> 
> They're facing each other now, and even though Dean expects Cas to back away, to realize what a monster he is, the angel steps forward and Dean's gaze drops to the ground.
> 
> "No, you're not," Cas says softly, but in a tone that brooks no argument. "Maybe you could fight the Mark for years. Maybe centuries, like Cain did. But you cannot fight it forever. And when you finally turn—and you will turn—Sam, and everyone you know, everyone you love, they could be long dead. Everyone except me."
> 
> Dean's head snaps up at this, and his eyes meet Cas'.
> 
> "I'm the one who will have to watch you murder the world," Cas continues, his voice nearly breaking. "So if there's even a chance that we can save you, I won't let you walk away."
> 
> Suddenly, memories rise up of a bleak cabin and a fallen angel in an apocalyptic nightmare—"Are you coming?" "Of course."—and a teenage girl in a trenchcoat singing her heart out on stage—"I'll just wait here, then. I'll wait for you."—and Dean finally realizes what Cas has been trying to tell him all along. 
> 
> "Yeah," he stammers in a choked sob, nodding, fighting down the panic at the thought that if this goes south, and he's cured but Cas...
> 
> Strong hands find his shoulders, and Cas' forehead touches his, their breaths mingling—Cas' calm and steady, Dean's thick with tears. After a moment, they pull back, locking their eyes. He's not sure how long their gaze lasts, both of them trying to say everything without saying anything at all. Without a word, Cas pulls back the sleeve over Dean's arm, not unlike the night the angel discovered what Dean had done, and they clasp arms just below the elbows, pulling each other close with their other hands on each other's shoulder. 
> 
> Cas' voice is deep and gravelly as he begins the spell, and at once, Dean can feel the pull at something evil in the depths of his soul.


	13. [Cure]

The Mark is fighting bitterly, clawing deeper and deeper into Dean’s soul, and he cries out, his voice raw, but the pulsing Grace spreads over him, envelops him. The light is near-blinding, even through his clenched eyelids. Cas' deep voice echoes in his core, and Dean can feel it pushing against the darkness there. The Grace coils around the red, and eventually, Dean can feel the Mark’s hold on him lessen. He tightens his grip on the back of Cas’ coat.

 

 

**

 

 

The heat from the Mark almost sears Castiel’s palm, but the cooling Grace pours into the scar. Red and blue-white meet, and it takes everything Castiel has to push his Grace forward, to force it against the evil residing in his hunter.

Dean’s yell thunders in his ears, even as Castiel feels himself slipping from consciousness. The Mark is so strong, and his Grace is struggling to find purchase, struggling to uproot this weed in the soul of a good man.

 _Please Castiel please_ , he hears, but the voice is faint.

Whatever crisis of faith Castiel has had in the past disappears and Castiel sends up his own prayer.

_Help me, Father. Help me save Dean._

 

 

**

 

 

Dean feels Cas’ grip on his arm weaken, he feels the angel’s body fall towards him, and Dean clutches Cas to him, even though he knows he won’t be able to keep himself upright much longer.

They sink to their knees, their right arms still clasped, Dean pulling Cas towards him as Cas’ left arm slips down to his side; their heads are buried into each other’s necks, and Dean can feel Cas breathing shallowly.

The Mark and the Grace still battle within him, but through the pain, Dean has only one thought.

_No no no no no, stay with me, Cas. Stay with me._

Dully, he knows that Cas can’t hear him—not like this—anymore.

In an instant that feels like an eternity, Dean feels the Mark disappear, the anger and evil vanishing and clearing his mind. It’s as though a fog has been lifted, and Dean can feel the steady pulse of Grace coursing through his body.

But the body leaning against him is still.

“ _No, Cas!_ C’mon, Cas, wake up! Cas! Wake up, buddy! Don’t do this to me, Cas! You fucking promised!” Dean roars as he cradles Cas in his arms. Cas’ eyes are closed, his jaw is slack, and Dean runs his hand over his angel’s face, runs it through his hair, holds him close, shakes him—he is desperate. Anything. He will do anything to save his angel.

Distantly, he is aware that Sam and Claire are standing around him, but he doesn’t care.

Cas won’t wake up.

 

 

**

 

 

He can taste the salt from the tears on his lips, but he knows they aren’t his. There are hands gripping him, holding him tight against the rough canvas of a jacket, and he can smell motor oil and cheap detergent.

A shuddering breath. Another. He opens his eyes, and sees Dean’s own green ones, red-rimmed and overflowing. The hunter chokes back a sob.

“Cas! Hey, hey, it’s ok—”

“Dean…” he says weakly.

“No, shh, shh, it’s ok, it’s ok. We’re going to be ok. I’ve got you. Whatever you need, we’ll get it. It’s gonna be ok,” Dean says as he brushes his own tears off of Cas’ face.

“Dean, I need _you_.”


	14. Aftermath

The door to Dean’s room is cracked open, and Claire looks in to see Castiel asleep in the bed. He looks so small under the covers, but the lines of tension in his face are gone, and his chest rises and falls gently. Dean had pulled a chair close on the first night, but the chair has long been abandoned, and the hunter sits resting against the headboard, his hand entwined with Castiel’s. Dean’s eyes are closed, but Claire knows he is awake—she doubts he has slept more than a few minutes here and there when the exhaustion of watching over the former angel has gotten the best of him.

Just under the rolled up sleeve is the new mark on Dean’s arm, and it draws Claire’s eye every time she sees it, like it’s a puzzle waiting to be solved and the solution is just out of her grasp. The scar is in the shape of a symbol, one that looks familiar, and it tugs at the back of her mind. Like the Mark, it too is red, but it is calm and looks like it belongs there; it's just a part of Dean.

Dean starts to stir and Claire ducks back out of the room, leaving them in peace.

 

 

“You need to eat and rest. Cas is just sleeping, he won’t notice if you’re gone for a few minutes.”

“I can’t, Sam. I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not. And I get it. But at the end of the day, Cas will need you to be ok, too. You can’t take care of him if you don’t take care of yourself.”

“I’m not leaving, Sammy.”

“Neither is Cas, Dean. Neither is Cas.”

Claire has stopped a few feet from Dean’s door, and Sam comes out of the room. She has a feeling the worn expression on Sam’s face is a mirror to her own. They exchange knowing looks, and then depart, each to their own space—Sam to the library, Claire to her room. The bunker is quiet again.

 

 

Sam and Claire make dinner, but it is a lackluster affair—soup and sandwiches and little conversation. They wash up and settle into a comfortable routine: Claire washing, Sam drying; it only takes a few minutes with so few dishes. Claire puts a sandwich on a plate and takes it to Dean’s room.

She knocks softly and enters when she hears a rough, “Yeah.”

“Brought you a sandwich. Roast beef. It’s not bad.”

“Thanks,” Dean says, accepting the plate. He chews slowly, and Claire can tell that the only reason he’s eating is because he knows he has to, not because he actually has any stomach for it.

“How’s he doing?” Claire asks, settling in the chair Dean abandoned for the bed.

“Ok, I think. He almost woke up for a moment not long ago. I thought I saw his eyes crack and he muttered something, but then he slipped off again,” Dean replies, setting the plate down on the nightstand with half of the sandwich untouched. For all of his worry and concern, Claire notices that the hunter looks more content than she has ever seen him. He gives her a half-grin, then looks down at Castiel, his thumb making small circles on the back of the former angel’s hand.

“It’s nice to see you happy, Dean.”

Dean tilts his head slightly as though he had never thought the word “happy” would ever apply to him, but then his smile broadens a little more.

"Yeah,” he sighs. “How about you? Holding up?”

“Back to normal…well, what passes for normal around here anyway,” Claire smirks. Dean chuckles a bit. The quiet spreads over them, but unlike the last time they spoke in this room, the silence is warm and comforting. Claire gets up to leave after a moment, pausing by the bed to give Castiel’s hand a quick squeeze.

“Claire?” Dean says hesitantly. “I, uh, I never said thank you. I know I was a dick, but… Yeah. Thanks. For everything.”

“What can I say? I like being right,” she jokes, hoping to ease the hunter’s unease at the show of emotions and gratitude. They lock eyes, and even though Claire can’t see into Dean’s soul anymore, she knows that everything is going to be ok after all.


	15. Fallen

The bed is warm, the comforter cocoons him, and there is a calloused grip on his left hand. He feels hollowed out and sore and aware of his body’s aches and pains like he hasn’t in a very long time. But he feels safe.

He opens his eyes slowly, taking in the concrete ceiling, then the weapons hanging on the wall beside the bed. _Dean’s room._ He doesn’t have to look to know who the warm presence is beside him, but he does anyway and is greeted with green eyes and a small smile.

“Hello, Dean.” His voice sounds rusty, more gravelly than usual.

“Hey, Cas.”

“How long have I been out?” Castiel asks, pushing himself up into a semi-sitting position. It hurts to breathe, and his eyes sting from the light, even though everything seems so much duller now, so finite.

Everything except the feeling that clenches his heart and spreads warmly from his core, reaching to the ends of every limb.

“Couple days,” his hunter replies, aiming for nonchalance and failing horribly.

“Oh.” Cas looks down at the arm holding his, and sees the new mark below the elbow. He smiles as he recognizes it for what it is. “The Mark is gone,” he observes.

“Yeah, but you stuck me with a new one.” Dean pauses, as if not daring to voice his deepest fears and desires. “It’s Enochian. It’s…it’s your name, isn't it?"

“In a sense, yes. I’m sorry,” Castiel answers, slightly ashamed.

“Don’t be. I mean it’s not the first time, ya know? First the handprint…I'm telling ya, that was an awkward one to try and explain…”

“Dean.”

“Yeah, Cas?”

“Shut up.”

The hunter’s mouth drops open a bit, then he laughs. It’s the first real laugh Cas has heard from Dean in probably years, and his own mouth turns up in a smile as he sees Dean’s eyes crinkle. The laughter subsides after a minute, and Cas is startled to see that faraway look on Dean’s face again.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. It’s just…thank you. Shit, I’m gonna be saying this a lot these days, aren’t I? Man, I’m sorry for always fucking things up, for pushing you away. I’m sorry it’s taken me this long to stop being a jackass—”

“I wouldn’t give yourself too much credit there yet, Dean,” Cas deadpans, and is rewarded with more eye crinkles and a snort from the hunter.

“Christ, sometimes I forget you're a sarcastic sonofabitch. Anyway, now it’s your turn to shut up. Look, all I’m saying is, I finally get it. We’ve been dancing around this for fucking years…but, uh. This is it for me. You’re it. If…you know…you want that,” Dean finishes awkwardly, clearing his throat.

“Of course this is what I want. _You_ , Dean, are what I want," Castiel replies, and while he knows how hard it is for Dean to finally say this out loud, there is a part of him that wants to just roll his eyes that the hunter somehow _still_ fears that the former angel doesn’t love him. “You are my family. I will stay as long as you’ll have me.”

Dean's breath hitches slightly at Cas' admission, though he says nothing else, and Cas understands the minute response for what it is. As Dean wraps his arms around Cas’ shoulders, Castiel leans into the embrace with his head resting in the crook of Dean’s neck, the hunter’s cheek pressed against the top of his head. 

This is home.


	16. A Somewhat Normal Life

It’s been two weeks since Cas—the nickname still seems strange to her, but it rolls off the tongue more easily now—fell, and life in the bunker seems to be returning to some semblance of normal. It’s not the normal Claire ever expected, but then again, she had long given up on the idea.

Castiel recovers slowly; apparently falling this time was far more painful than the last, but at least now he understands better how to be human. The trenchcoat is retired, although Claire can see it draped over the chair besides Dean’s bed when their door is cracked open. It still amuses her to see Cas in jeans and Henleys or plaid—even though Dean is a couple inches taller, they are more or less the same size, and the former angel has been borrowing from Dean until he is well enough to go and pick out his own clothes. Secretly, Claire wonders if Cas ever will, considering how the pack of shirts Sam picked up has remained untouched on the nightstand.

Last week, Sam even persuaded Dean to go on a hunt—something about a nest of vampires over the border in Nebraska—and Claire managed to convince the elder Winchester that she would take care of Cas, although it took Claire’s best teenage bitchface, complete with crossed arms and one hip jutted out, to coerce a gruff, “Fine! All right! Sammy, get in the goddamn car!” from Dean. (If Claire were the betting type, she'd have laid money on Dean apologizing to Baby for the slight before driving off in her.)

She and Castiel had spent the two nights watching bad television—although, for Claire, that meant less watching and more good-natured exasperation as she tried to explain what was going on to the overly-literal fallen celestial being. ("Which part of this show is supposed to represent reality?" "I don't see what animated bears have to do with selling bathroom products." "I know Dean enjoys this show, but I distrust this doctor's credentials based on that diagnosis and the fact that he seems to spend more time with his female colleagues in storerooms and elevators than treating his patients."—this last one had almost caused Claire to spit-take her Coke.)

And now, Claire is in the middle of a grocery store, and she's zoning off, staring down a row of deli breads. They’re standing in front of the meat counter, and the cart in front of Claire is still mostly empty.

“Claire?” Dean asks again, and Claire snaps out of her thoughts. “I said, what do you want for dinner this week?”

“Burgers,” she replies promptly. Dean rolls his eyes.

“You know, I can’t believe I’m going to say this—and you better never fucking tell Sammy I did—but you can’t just eat burgers every day,” Dean grumbles, rubbing the back of his neck and looking around the store. “Cas’ll kill me if I don’t buy you some vegetables or fruit or something.”

Echoing Dean's response, Claire rolls her own eyes. “You’re one to talk. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything green that wasn’t gummy.”

“Shut up,” Dean says, but he has a crooked grin on his face.

It's too surreal. Claire looks around the store as if expecting someone to dart out from crowd and call them on the lie— _you’re not normal, you don’t belong here, freaks_ , she expects they’d say. But no one does. Just more zombie shoppers following carts, kids crying that Mom won’t buy them cookies, senior citizens moving at a glacial pace and completely oblivious to the traffic jams they’re causing in the narrow aisles. And then there’s her—former angel vessel, teen runaway and screw up—debating the nutritional merits of burgers versus plants with a hunter who has stopped the Apocalypse and is in love with a fallen Angel of the Lord.

It can’t be real.

But it is.

Dean eventually relents and gets the ingredients for burgers, as well as a homemade pie from the store bakery, and Claire eventually relents and picks out a few tangerines and a premade salad mix. The cart is slowly loading up, and Dean regards it gravely, lost in thought.

“You ok?” Claire asks as they pass through the cereal aisle.

“Yeah…just…nothing…” Distracted, Dean spends an unnecessary amount of time pretending to study the boxes before grabbing some knock-off brand of Frosted Flakes. He tosses the box in the cart and pushes it to the registers. Claire follows a few steps behind, wondering what has upset him, wondering if it's something she did or said.

They don't talk until they are back on the road, the Impala's engine the only music for the ride.

"So, Claire," Dean finally begins, tearing his gaze off the road just long enough to side-eye her. "What's your plan? You're all healed up, and Cas is fine now..."

"I don't know," she mumbles. If anyone had asked her a month ago, she would have had an answer—and probably a defensive and sarcastic barb ready to fly off her tongue. But now...?

"Well, I...I mean, you're gonna be eighteen soon, so you can do what you want, but..." Dean swallows, and Claire prepares herself for what is sure to be one of Dean's patented uncomfortable breaks in his poorly kept credo about not being an emotional softie. "Me 'n Cas—and Sam—we've always got a room for you if you want it."

"I thought it was your friend Charlie's room?"

"She's a big girl, she'll deal. We can clean out a new room for her next time she's over. Or you could pick a new room, if you wanted."

Claire's mind whirls and a riot of emotions swarms inside her. Her gut panics and says run, her heart longs and says stay.

"I might stay. For just awhile, you know," she concedes, but judging from the look Dean gives her, she knows he understood everything she didn't say. He lets out a breath and smiles.

"Can't promise it'll be normal—you know how screwed up our life is and we've screwed up yours more than most. But, I dunno. You could go back to school. Charlie can doctor up some paperwork for you. I mean, I'm not exactly a role model about this—I'm just a fucking dropout with a GED—but...maybe you could try," Dean says, rushing through his spiel like he expects her to scoff and laugh.

She does laugh, but good-naturedly, and with an eye-roll. "God, you're such a _dad_."

She'd meant it in jest, but for some reason Dean's face freezes and he has that same stony look he did in the cereal aisle.

"Dean?"

"Uh, yeah, sorry." He leans an elbow on the window sill and props up his head on his knuckles.

"Dean, I didn't mean—" She's not exactly sure what she's apologizing for, but she has to say _something_.

"No, it's not you." He sighs. "It's just...last time I came close to having something like this, I fucked it up pretty bad. I'm kind of shit at the apple pie life, you know?"

Claire considers a moment, looking out the window at the ranches and Capes and the neatly trimmed lawns. She turns back to Dean with a half-grin. “Well, it’s a good thing we’re pretty screwed up already, then.”

Dean returns the smile hesitantly, and Claire looks out the window shield, looks towards home.


	17. Epilogue

He never thought he’d have this, and there are nights that he wakes up in a panic, convinced it’s not real, that some djinn or some dick archangel is just fucking with him, but then he’ll see Cas’ back, his dark hair deep in a pillow, the blankets rising and falling softly as Dean’s angel—he will always be Dean’s angel—breathes. He’ll wrap an arm around Cas’ waist and breathe in the now-familiar scents: minty shampoo and clean soap and maybe a hint of their work in the garage—Dean has insisted that if Cas continues to drive the piece of crap Pimpmobile, he better learn how to keep it running—and something else that is just undeniably _Cas_.

Some nights he might hear Claire get up and pad down the hall, or in the early hours, Sam on his way out for a jog. Sometimes it’s just the thrum and hum of the heating and airducts in the bunker.

They still hunt, of course, and Dean will always be well acquainted with the nightly noises of a cheap motel—the too loud neighbors, the rattle and whoosh of cars and trucks on the road outside, the buzz of a cheap neon light—but he prefers this soundtrack.

The soundtrack of home.

And on those nights, he’ll watch Cas sleep for a while, remembering all the times the angel has watched over him, and with a content smile, he will drift off to sleep.

 

**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who reads this -- especially those of you who were reading and commenting and kudos-ing (it's totally a word now, I've decided) along the way. I really appreciate the support!

**Author's Note:**

> So in case anyone was wondering, the title comes from a take on the meaning of "Claire" (bright / clear --> light), since it's the Grace she carried that basically got this whole show on the road. 
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> Thanks for reading! Comments and kudos appreciated!


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